


Lost Horizon

by Sylviavolk2000



Series: Life of Methos [8]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-19
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-19 01:06:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 39,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/567306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sylviavolk2000/pseuds/Sylviavolk2000
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What really happened while Methos was in Tibet? Well. Other Watchers were involved, and of course the danger with that is, his secret double life could be exposed at any time ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Imagine the usual disclaimers. With love for James Hilton and Rudyard Kipling. 

Warning: I eat nonfiction, spit out fiction. 

## Lost Horizon 

Act One 

_"In order that you may awaken to the supreme deliverance,_

_free from fear and grief,_

_turn your steps towards Knowledge!"_

Dolma of the Universal Mother Tara, the female Buddha 

After the end of the Galati affair, Methos was weary to his core, and the wish of his heart was to leave Paris. So he did. Without contacting Dawson or MacLeod, he closed up his apartment and arranged to have someone pick up the incriminating chronicles strewn all over his bedroom; he could get into serious trouble, leaving Watcher material unattended. After all this was dealt with, he locked his front door and walked away shouldering his old backpack. Just another student bumming his way across Europe. 

That year, he was working on articles relating to Oriental languages. His duties at the University of Paris were negligible, because half his colleagues were Watchers; the faculties of ancient-language studies all over the world were riddled with busy Watchers. It was the feeblest disguise he had used for centuries, anyway. Typical of the Watchers, in Methos' opinion. Sometimes he wondered why every immortal didn't know about the Watchers. 

The excuse he gave Watcher administration was simple. He was presently engaged in translating certain ancient Sanscrit documents. These related the deeds of a mythical Indian hero-king, who had been identified as a Methos identity; all he needed to say was that he had tracked down new references. The documents he needed to see were (naturally) as far away as possible. 

And off Methos walked, bound for the ends of the earth. He knew just where he wanted to go. In an earlier age he would have taken ship to India and then made the pilgrim's trek up the Ganges river into the Himalayas - clad in rags, begging from a bowl. As he had done before, and perhaps would again. Or ridden the ancient Mongol highway, which ran all the way from Siberia to the Raj. Or found hire as a shepherd or a honey-hunter, and worked his way north from Nepal at leisure. 

For the inhabitants of the land he sought were Buddhists so devout that they would not eat flesh, save that some foreigner slaughtered it for them; would not butcher their own flocks, but hired Nepalese to drive the sheep south to sell; would not so much as kill earthworms with a shovel. A land big as half Europe, yet so remote that until the 1950's, there had been no wheels save prayer wheels in it. The most backward nation on earth. 

The country of Pod Yul, roof of the world. 

Tibet. 

#

The world changed. It had changed more in the past five hundred years than in three thousand years before that, and more in the past fifty years than in the whole previous five hundred. Methos traveled, now, by airplane. Flying through the skies! His flight went from Paris to Saudi Arabia, to Australia and then Hong Kong. In Hong Kong, he checked in at the organization's Asian headquarters. 

He loitered around Hong Kong for a fortnight, while the necessary visas and permits and tickets were sent up from Shanghai. The Watcher organization straightened out his papers, put him up with colleagues while he waited, and then provided him with the means to smuggle his sword into China. Just like fate. 

It was routine courier work, really. An immortal from the Bon people of Asia had recently been beheaded in Geneva. Before taking reassignment, his grieving Watcher had acted as per Watcher policy and diverted every bank account he could find into the organization's coffers - after all, secret global conspiracies need bankrolls too. The Watcher had also got hold of the immortal's mementos, which were now being sent home to their country of origin. Also as per Watcher policy, under the ten-year-old repatriation movement spearheaded by historians working on the Methos Project. And Methos, like a good boy, had volunteered to babysit the valuables along the last leg of their journey. 

There was antique armor, a few holy relicts, and two Indian-made _patta_ swords . . . which, by the time Methos got through with the official papers, became three swords. Two Indian, and one European. One of which would be shipped innocently along to its destination, and there vanish. Never to be seen again by mortal man. 

Sometimes it was useful, being a Watcher. 

He forged the papers. He stowed his sword safely away. Then, contraband and all, he flew \- as per instructions - to Chengdu town, in Szechuan province. There - as per instructions! \- he met another Watcher, and the two of them boarded a CAAC plane for Lhasa, Tibet. 

Tibet had recently been invaded by China, something that seemed to rouse Western mortals to infinite indignation. But then, nobody remembered history these days. It was a pity: if they remembered history, they would know that China usually invaded Tibet; indeed, Methos recalled at least once when Tibet had invaded China. The world changed, yet always remained the same. 

His companion's name was Mallison. "From New York," he confided, hunching closer to Methos as the plane taxied; they had adjoining seats. Mallison had a laptop, two textbooks, and a portfolio of antique manuscripts piled in his lap. He had a pink, chewed lower lip, and large long-lashed dark eyes. 

"Connor MacLeod," Methos guessed. 

"Seen him." 

"Kiem Sun." 

"Seen 'im." 

"The Central Park whacker - you know, the unidentified one?" 

"Seen 'em all." Mallison bit his lip with his overbite: it was a grin. "Ari al-Muzaiyin. Sarah of Antioch. Cassius Polonius?" 

"Nope. I've been shut up in Paris for years now. Research section, I'm a historian. You?" 

"I'm going into fieldwork. Stationed with the Tibet bureau." Mallison drew himself up, with tremendous pride; manuscripts cascaded to the floor, and he damned fretfully and snatched after them. "Just finished my internship and surveillance courses. Got sent to the Asian directory 'cause my grandparents came from Lhasa. So I look just like a Tibetan native, and I can already speak the language. They say once I perfect my accent, I'll be helping watch some of the oldest immortals in Asia." 

"Will you?" 

"I'm going to work on, on Project--" 

"Project Shangri-la?" 

"You got that one!" Mallison beamed at Methos. "What about you, then?" 

"Oh, I'm afraid it's very small beer compared to your job," said Methos. "I'm working on the Methos chronicle." 

"Hard luck." Obviously no true-blue Watcher - in Mallison's opinion - would choose research over the glamor of fieldwork. But he was kind enough to pat Methos sympathetically on the arm. "Don't worry, I'm sure you'll be transferred soon. And at least you get to travel. After we get settled, maybe you and me can take in the sights together. Shop in Lhasa, climb a mountain. Have you heard about the latest from the Tibet bureau? They think they've discovered evidence of Tibetan immortals living in communities - not just right now, but for centuries. Living in peace, for hundreds of years! They say at the monastery communities at Sangnachos zong and Shigatze and Sanding nunnery, there are immortal mystics who can fly and tell the future." 

"Do they? That's interesting." 

"Apparently it has something to do with an immortal monk named Darius, who was here in the fifteenth century. Say, you might have heard about that! Didn't Darius spend his last few lifetimes in Paris?" 

"I'm afraid I don't know much about any immortal except my own," said Methos meekly. The plane leaped into the air. He sat up straight, gazing out of the little window; though he had flown hundreds of times now, taking off always thrilled him. 

"Well, we'll find out. I'm going to Sangnachos zong!" 

Mallison was smoothing his hand proudly along the side of his laptop. Methos was distracted by the marks there: over a dozen bold black slashes in indelible ink. Intrigued, he pointed at them. "What are those for?" 

"Oh, all the field Watchers in New York have those, I was just going along with the fad. It's my tally of sightings - you know, like a birdwatcher's life book? Just like that, only of course you aren't allowed to keep a list of names." He leaned over to breath into Methos' ear: "It's how many of them I've seen." 

#

They landed at Gongu Airport, in Lhasa, and Methos knew immediately that he was in trouble. 

It started on the walk from the plane to the Lhasa bus. All he had to carry was his old backpack. But after a mere ten steps his head was spinning and his heart pounding with stress; then a native Tibetan, grinning from ear to ear, swooped down upon him and relieved him of his burden. Amazed, Methos pressed a hand to his heart and thought: altitude sickness. Airplane flights. A modern malady. Of course! How high had they ascended, how quickly, during their brief flight from Chengdu? And now he felt as if he had scaled Everest without acclimatizing. 

He felt almost too weak to lift a sword in his own defense. How could he had forgotten about this? 

Mallison trotted up to him, wiping his brow. "Whew! And I thought I had a good ticker. I think I read somewhere they don't even let old people fly up into Tibet anymore - it's just too hard on them." 

"Tell me about it," said the world's oldest immortal, grimly. 

He hadn't been in Lhasa for a hundred years. But the city hadn't changed that much. There were Chinese trucks on the roads now, and Chinese buildings with dirty tin roofs everywhere - but the street of the rugs and the street of shawls and the streets of butter and of meat were, presumably, where they had always been. Potala palace, much run down, dominated the skyline as it always had. Lhasa sprawled across its plain, and beyond it the desert Methos remembered stretched away to a mountain range like a great white wall; at the foot of the mountains, Sera monastery lay serene with its white walls, its scarlet temples with the golden rooftops, and if the monastery was empty now and the paint and gilt were peeling, one could not see the damage for distance. 

Native Tibetans with their Mongol faces still thronged the city. Pilgrims genuflected busily all the way to the Jo Khang temple, chalks held in their outstretched hands - marking the ground with each genuflection, and crawling forward a length only to genuflect again. Lovely girls with long thin noses, with blue-black hair and butter-brown skin, still skipped along giggling. Only the lamas were gone. 

Mallison and Methos walked along a street. Hawkers sold traditional silverwork and scarves knitted from cashmere wool. A few Chinese jeeps and trucks inched forward, breasting a tide of foot traffic. Mallison was consulting a fax paper with instructions. "Now that we've dropped off the relicts, we're on our own. Looks like we can crash at the local safe house overnight, and tomorrow a car will pick us up and take us to a town called Tsawa. We meet our contact there. At the vulture stone, it says?" 

Methos nodded, not listening; he was thinking of MacLeod. Really, he ought to be plugging into the computers at the local safe house, downloading some reports, checking on MacLeod's whereabouts. Just in case. When last heard from, Mac had been in Paris. But Methos was willing to bet he would be on his way to Seacouver by now. 

". . . So I guess we can sight-see all day. Geez, I can hardly believe I'm here - I've been heard about this city all my life. And no canned tours of the local museums for us, either, Pierson. I'm going to show you the real Lhasa. You'll see! I'll steer you right." 

"Good man . . ." 

"Say, what's wrong? Cat's got your tongue?" 

"Just thinking," Methos said softly. Indeed, MacLeod would like this city . . . if he didn't know it already. If he hadn't visited it on some wanderjahr through Asia unrecorded in his chronicles. If Darius hadn't already shown it to him-- But he had promised himself he wasn't going to think of MacLeod for a while. 

"Here we go!" Mallison was saying. "Here's a real Tibetan teahouse. Look, not a single white face in there." 

. . . from time to time he had to blink mentally and remind himself that he was young, not old; that he was Adam Pierson the Methos historian, who had never met a dead language he didn't like, who was more comfortable with books than with adventure. Who was mortal, and introverted. Someone who had little to hide . . . and who was definitely not obsessed with the welfare of a pig-stubborn, not-too-bright, thin-skinned Scotsman with infectious idealism. 

Someone who knew who he was. 

The native girl behind the teashop counter said pertly, " _Oghyai_!" and Methos answered without thinking, " _Lags ma Kaa kyai la oghyai!_ " and then looked at the amazed faces around him. 

"I read that in a book somewhere," he explained, letting his English accent flavor the words. He made his face shine with innocent honesty, and pointed at the display of soda pop. "May I have a Coke, please?" 

"No way, man!" Mallison slapped him on the back. "Tea for both of us," he ordered, in New York Tibetan. Methos kept his head down, accepted the cup of tea he was offered, and trailed along behind Mallison as they went to a table. His mistake seemed to have been forgotten. And to dispel any last lingering suspicions, it was easy enough to take a healthy swig of tea and then spit it all over the tabletop. 

"What the bloody hell's in that?!?" he exploded. 

Mallison tasted his tea, and burst out laughing. "Just like Granny used to serve! They salt the tea around here, Adam. And that floating stuff? That's butter." He was enjoying himself thoroughly. "Yak butter." 

#

"Salween River," Mallison reported, consulting his guidebook. 

"Giamo nu chu," Methos murmured, walking slowly behind his companion. His heart hammered. He spoke too softly for Mallison to overhear. 

Mountains towered above. The Giamo nu chu river coursed through its narrow gorge, about two hundred yards straight down. Mallison kicked a stone over the edge, and watched it ricochet to the bottom. He read from his guide: "'A region of gracious jungle lit with many happy orchid flowering plants. For many centuries pilgrims have crossed at Tsawa upon road to city of Lhasa. Horseback travel is advised from this point for reasons of road ending. With a picturesque cable bridges.'" 

"Where are the orchids?" 

"Right after the road ending, presumably. We should be able to rent horses in Tsawa. Hey, you!" To their driver, in Tibetan: "Is this the vulture rock?" 

The driver looked blankly at them. He climbed back into his decrepit truck and revved the motor, reversing downhill to leave them stranded. Standing by the roadside with their baggage parked at their feet. 

Mallison said, "I can't walk here. Look at that road! I'll have a coronary!" 

The slopes above them were thick with tree-of-God firs and projecting tumbles of jagged rock; along the side of the road grew dense tangles of flowering rhododendrons and roses, red and red. The road was a rutted dirt track. None of the other traffic was wheeled: there were pilgrims on foot, and what seemed to be porters leading toiling ponies almost lost under huge panniers. One man was followed by a string of five sheep, each with a bundle strapped on its back. Methos looked at the grade of the road, calculated the weight of his pack and his sword, and began to chant to himself: _Om mani padme hum. Om mani padme hum . . . aum Matriye salendu . . . Matris matria da dzu . . ._

A party of Tibetans was walking up the road toward them. It was a whole family, right down to a wizened grandmother carried by two grandsons, who swung her in the chair of their linked arms. She rocked in her human chair, humming to herself - oblivious to the two men in Western clothes who stood watching her. Her face was shrunken all over into the likeness of a dried apple - barely human in appearance - and her toothless mouth grinned mindlessly. Just behind her, a strapping man in a butcher's apron toted a bundle of white cloth. 

"Okay. Adam, you stay with the relicts - I'll fix things." Mallison fell in with the group, and began to talk to the hindmost. Moments later he returned to where Methos was dutifully waiting with their luggage. "Told you I'd fix it. Turns out they're going up to the vulture rock right now. We can tag along, and I hired two of their boys to haul our stuff. I gather it's some sort of a ceremonial shrine." 

The vulture rock lay off the road, at the top of a footpath better described as a precipice with pretensions to civility. Mallison, panting like a dog with his tongue literally hanging out, flopped down on a stone and rested his head between his knees. Methos sat beside him; he felt much as Mallison looked. The Tibetans dumped the luggage onto the ground and strolled away, settling themselves at ease around a firepit to the left. Other Tibetans were already squatting there, smoking cigarettes. A kettle was boiling. Tea was served all around. One of the men, grinning, carried the kettle over to Methos and Mallison and extended it - tilting it so that a few drops, glistening with melted butter, spilled out onto the ground. 

He waited. After a moment, grinning more widely, he held out his free hand and rubbed finger and thumb briskly together. 

Mutely, Methos and Mallison each fished out a few Chinese coins, and passed them over. The Tibetan pocketed these and produced a pair of dented tin cups. He poured tea, and returned triumphantly to his family. 

"I ought to see if I can buy some food too." Mallison drained his butter tea. "Wonder if they have _tsampa_? I ought to get us some _tsampa_. That's barley. Popped barley, ground into flour and mixed with butter tea. Hot buttered tea and _tsampa_ porridge with _momo_ dumplings - Granny used to make it for me every Sunday. Christ, I used to love her _momo_ dumplings." 

The Tibetan family conferred among themselves. A lama in the robes of the Yellow Cap sect had arrived, and was standing upon the vulture stone itself, which was broad, flat, and dimpled with natural hollows rather like empty bowls. And there were the vultures - dozens of vultures circling down to perch like tame pets along the slope on the far side of the stone. They crowded together, squabbling, and then sat wing to wing in feathery ranks, like a crowded audience at the opera. They were white-headed, their big bodies speckled tan and white . . . and Methos remembered them well. He set his dirty cup down on the ground, folded his hands, and scowled. This was a _jhator_ ceremony: they were about to witness the giving of alms to the birds. 

"Those birds are amazing," Mallison remarked. "Like ants on a picnic table. I wonder what--" 

Two Tibetans had carried the bundle wrapped in white up onto the rock. They threw it down. The cloth fell open, and out tumbled a woman's soft rounded arm clad in a crimson cotton sleeve. 

Mallison was silent, his mouth open. 

Now a woman with tangled black hair lay, face-down, upon the white cloth. She appeared to be sleeping, or dead. The Tibetan in the butcher's apron squatted and stripped away the red dress she wore, leaving her naked back exposed. He then lifted a business-like cleaver, and brought it down on the woman's spine - chopping it open, so that the spine shone white and the ribs were laid bare, gleaming. 

The family sat quietly watching: three generations of mortals, from the senile old granny to two solemn toddlers in trousers and aprons. One of the toddlers whined, and his mother gathered him to her and began to give him suck, to quiet him. The butcher on the rock chopped swiftly, bits of reddened flesh splattering as he did - making the swastika-shaped cuts which symbolized eternity. His companion, an American Player's Choice cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, gathered up the pieces of flesh and began to pound them with a wooden hammer. He used one of the natural hollows in the rock for that purpose - as if using a bowl. He worked at it, never pausing, until the flesh had been reduced to bloody pulp. 

It was hard work. In minutes both men began to pant heavily, sweat springing out on their foreheads. After the butcher finished stripping the back, he chopped off each arm in turn, hacking straight through the bone. It sounded like someone splitting wood. The family watched. The lama was yawning. The vultures all ruffled their wings, lifting briefly off the ground and settling again - hopping just a little bit nearer. 

The sounds of grunting and puffing, the squish of flesh flattening and the snap of bones being pulverized rose toward Heaven. The vulture rock looked like a butcher's shambles now. Every few minutes, the vultures would shuffle closer. Mallison had both hands gripped together in his lap, and though his face was admirably composed, his cheeks were white as paper. But when the Tibetan with the cleaver severed the woman's neck, and several excited vultures rose circling into the air, he scrambled hastily to his feet and retreated down the path. 

Methos decided what would be in character for Adam Pierson, and stood up to follow Mallison. Poor Mallison, who was getting his horizons rapidly broadened. This was a sky burial - the ceremony of devout Buddhists, who believed in giving back to nature that which, deprived of its soul, no longer held meaning or value. It was as it had been done in Pod Yul for over two thousand years . . . and it was the reason why Tibetan immortals lived in communities; a solitary immortal killed in an accident could be ritually beheaded before he knew it. Unless someone prevented the burial. 

Several Chinese were coming up the steep path: tiny people compared to the Tibetans, most of them in grey suits and a few in Red Army uniforms. Stopping short, Methos backed away and hid himself behind the witnessing family, his breath coming fast. His head was now pounding. He was seriously worried, because one of the Chinese was an immortal. 

That one. There. A woman in uniform, pinch-faced, looking like a female accountant in drab pyjamas. As he stole cautious looks at her, she was moving sideways and peering in his direction. Then she had seen him, and in a flash the most inscrutable of expressions fell over her face - transforming it into a mask devoid of emotion . . . and like magic, decades fell away from her and she was enigmatic, mysterious, youthful. Beautiful. 

The meal was prepared. The lama was now intoning a final prayer, while the Chinese observers sat down unobtrusively to watch. Methos got himself out of there as fast as he could, and the woman in uniform turned openly to stare after him. She had recognized him, he was sure of it. But he was also sure he had never seen her in his life. 

One last glance at her. As he did, one of the other Chinese leaned forward and gave him an unmistakable Watcher hand-signal. 

And behind them all, hundreds of vultures rose fluttering into the sky, hovered for an instant, and descended - covering the burial rock in a solid, ravenous mass. 

#

"She goes by the name of Ho Hsien Ku - Immortal Maiden," said Chang, the Watcher who had met them at the _jhator_ rock; he was the senior Watcher in Tibet, presently assigned to one of the immortals at Sangnachos zong. He shrugged. "Comrade Immortal Maiden, if you please. Her first observed kill was in Okinawa, in the 'forties, and we have been shadowing her ever since." He lifted his teacup to his lips, and sipped. "I must say, Mr Pierson, how impressed I am that you spotted her. Are you sure that your career lies in research?" 

"Flunked out of basic surveillance three times," Methos explained, embarrassed. "Too clumsy." 

"Nonsense. You must try again." 

"Oh, I doubt that. I thought my heart was going to come right out of my throat--" 

"The rigors of altitude. You must both avoid exertion scrupulously for at several days - remember that you're seventeen hundred feet above sea level--" 

"--and anyway, immortals make me nervous," Methos finished, well in character. 

"There's a lot of that going around," Mallison remarked. 

They were all silent for several minutes, thinking of the Paris massacre; every Watcher in the world had been briefed. Finally Chang said, his voice calm, "We shall not tax you, Adam. We are all living in interesting times." 

They sat in the upper room of a sunny Tibetan house, built of fir logs after the Russian style. The tea, however, was pure Chinese - green jasmine tea, served without milk or sugar. A dish of tiny almond cookies was on the table between them. Also on the table were the two swords from Geneva, and the rest of the mementos. Mallison was running his fingertips along the blade of one of the swords, diplomatically; he was avoiding looking Methos in the face. 

"As for Immortal Maiden, she first came to Tibet near the end of the cultural revolution, as part of the Red Guard. With them, she partook in the opening of seven monasteries--" 

Mallison looked up. "You mean 'looting', don't you?" 

For just an instant the Chinese Watcher and the Watcher descended from Tibetan refugees stared into each other's eyes. Then Chang said calmly, "Looting. When the impoverished and disadvantaged see treasure spread out before them, there is always looting. Though the youth of our own Red Guard were not motivated by greed--" 

"Only by ignorance!" 

"--not by greed, but by zeal for their cause. But that time is long behind us and they did not know what they destroyed. Comrade Immortal Maiden, however, was certainly motivated by greed. Most of what passed through her fingers vanished, only to resurface on the black market in Shanghai . . . And she knew the value of what she handled, for she consistently stole only the very best. She also used her position to hunt down and dispatch sixteen Tibetan immortals. She's been here ever since, moving around and switching identities. Then, about six years ago, she joined forces with Lobon Naro-Bonchung." 

"And who the hell," Mallison inquired, "is Lobon Naro-Bonchung?" 

"He's a Bon priest, one of the practitioners of the old religion supplanted by Buddhism. Like our unfortunate friend here, who lost his head in Geneva." Chang tapped the blade nearest him, and a pleasant chiming sound responded: there were jingling balls soldered into the hollow pommel of the hilt. 

Methos stood, lifting his cup of tea, and warming his hands around it as he walked across the room. At the window overlooking the street, he stopped and gazed out, his back to the other two men. 

He had known an immortal named Naro-Bonchung once. 

Behind him, Mallison with his young callow voice was questioning the senior Watcher - avid for every detail he could get. "--the Black Bons are shamanists, aren't they? I think my grandma told me about them--" 

"They are. Naro-Bonchung is an adept of tantric magic. More to the point, he is six foot seven inches tall, and enjoys fashioning ritual drinking vessels from the skulls of his enemies. The two of them work together. He cares for little save quickening; she cares for little save money. Together they can strip a victim faster than fifty vultures at a burial feast . . . But enough of them. You must be eager to hear about the lamasery?" 

"Yes! When can we go up there?" 

"In four or five days. Give your bodies time to adapt to the altitude! We shall donate these trinkets to them. You'll be my assistant, a young Tibetan student from Shigatze; say nothing, and you'll pass. Mr Pierson, you'll be just what you are - a visiting professor, from Paris University." 

"And we're all working for--" 

"For Project Shangri-la!" Chang laughed. "A very proper academic group, accredited with all the papers and permits to study the mystic arts of the lamas: yogic running and self-heating, sword-spiralling and magic _zung_ chants. And the remarkable longevity of the most powerful lamas, each one a holy Incarnation of some past Buddhist saint, each one reputed to be immortal." 

"And will we see my immortal? I mean - our immortal, our assignment." (You could all but hear the blush in the boy's voice. Sometimes Methos felt so old.) "What was her name - Sang Yum?" 

"Yes. Sang Yum, 'Secret Mother', and she is the reverend female lama who founded Sangnachos zong: the 'fort of the doctrine of the secret spells'. Or sometimes it is also called the Fort of the Pure Spring. Unfortunately, there are no roads to the lamasery. It lies at the top of a pass, beyond eight cable bridges, and supplies are carried up to it on foot. This isolation saved it from sacking during the cultural revolution. It also saves it from modern comforts and conveniences, but no matter." 

"But, but - will I see her?" 

"No. She has been immured in solitary contemplation - walled into a cell hewed by her own hands from the living rock of the mountain - since before any of us were born." 

Methos drank the last swallow of his tea. He thought of her - Sang Yum. And the magician, Naro-Bonchung. 

Then he shut his eyes and let memory whirl him backward a hundred years. 

#

Tibet, eighteen-ninety-eight: 

". . . Who are you?" Ayesha demanded. 

They trudged up toward the pinnacle of a pass in an immense wall of mountains: the Zaskar range of the Himalayan massif. Behind them lay two hundred miles of crooked valleys crawling upward through the Greater Himalaya range, following the pilgrim road toward the headwaters of the Ganges. Ganges, holiest of rivers; the sacred stream, which - heard of, desired, seen, touched, bathed in or even hymned - sanctified all beings. Indeed, even those who, at a distance of a hundred leagues, exclaimed its name, "Ganga, Ganga," atoned thus for all the sins committed during three previous lifetimes. 

Low stone walls snaked along the slope of the pass, each wall formed entirely from heaped _mani_ -stones; every stone left there by a pilgrim, inscribed with a spell or a prayer. Prayer-flags fluttered, stuck in these walls. Here and there, a prayer wheel rotated, creaking in the wind. Beyond the pass lay the center of the world: Meru, abode of Shiva. 

Methos walked barefoot on the stony ground, his hair blowing like the prayer-flags. He wore the clout and robes of an Indian mystic. Ayesha his wife had amused herself by entering Tibet upon the back of an elephant - a cow elephant, six feet high and round as a ball of butter, and painted all over with lotuses and swastikas. Pink and green and yellow and blue paint, upon the wrinkled grey-pink skin of the elephant, which plodded obediently up the pass, flapping its tattered ears; to ward away the evil eye, Ayesha had pierced the beast's ears and hung them with long swags of blue beads. The mahout, naked save for a loincloth, walked along by the elephant's shoulder. 

Ayesha herself had donned the garb of a Bedouin prince: a _farw_ a lined with black lambskin, _thaub_ and _damir_ , and a _kaffiya_ striped bright red and tied with a cord of scarlet and gold. Beside the elephant, her snow-white Arabian mare frisked along at the end of a leading rein. While Ayesha sat enthroned in her howdah like a goddess. Wherever she went, awed natives salaamed and called down blessings, and then they charged her twice the normal price for supplies. And she would browbeat them into submission, sometimes laying into them with her malacca cane. But then, in Ayesha's eyes the whole world's population were her servants. 

"Who are you . . . ?" she repeated, swaying upon the elephant's back. 

"Your lord and master," answered Methos, speaking Arabic. "And also a Frankish barbarian, beloved. Thus the disguise. Remember, Englishmen are forbidden to enter Tibet." 

She leant forward, eyes flashing. "But if another immortal discovers you, he will attack you! He will try to take your head! And how will you defend yourself, if you refuse to carry your sword?" 

"I can live without the sword, Ayesha." 

"Bah. You? You have the heart of a boy, the meekness of a lamb. But do not fear. I will protect you." 

"You're more likely to get us both bloody arrested and thrown into a Calcutta jail," Methos grumbled, and Ayesha burst out laughing. 

"Where there are certainly no other immortals to challenge you. My prince, you cannot play at being a mortal. If you die, what will become of me? I am your wife: if you are helpless then I am helpless, if you are brave then I am invulnerable . . . If you die, I shall die also. But be the immortal you are, and I have sworn to live forever by your side!" 

"Ayesha, you are not an immortal." 

"No, but I am flesh of your flesh, and when I married you I took on your race and your nation, remember? I meant the vows I took. Your people are my people. Your gods are my gods." 

A few steps onward, the top of the pass was marked by _lapcha_ s - cairns of _mani_ -stones - some tall as the elephant. Prayer-wheels and silk banners crowned them. Here dozens of pilgrims trudged doggedly onward, chanting praises to Brahma and Buddha, to Shiva, to divine Parvati. Among them were practitioners of the old Bon faith, who came to make the ritual circuit of devotion around Mount Kailas; their religion instructed them to circle counterclockwise whilst all others went clockwise. And there were native Tibetans returning from India, who as they reached the summit all cried out loudly: " _Lya gyalo!_ \- the Gods win!" Ayesha's elephant plodded along, tiny eyes almost shut. Some of the pilgrims dropped coins in the bowl Methos held, or offered him dates and apricots. 

Beyond the pass, a vast misty valley spread out like infinity. Immense mountains floated above it; glittering water showed through the haze - like a glimpse into paradise. Directly opposite, a pyramidal mountain rose covering half the sky; its sides glowed intense blue-purple, streaked with horizontal bands of shining snow. Down the southern slope - that which faced India - a great gorge extended thousands of feet, crossed by a rock band of horizontal strata. The combination formed a giant swastika. 

This was Mount Kailas. Meru, the world-lotus, home of the gods. The lake at its feet was Manasarovar: 'formed in the mind of Brahma'. Here was the heart of the mandala, the centrepoint of the universe. 

Methos gazed upon it; it seemed he had done so a thousand times before. And his heart filled with love for the world. 

"And another thing," said Ayesha. 

He blinked. ". . . what?" 

"These people you've told me of: the Watchers. The ones who follow immortals around, yearning to be like them. You are like those Watchers. Except that you are immortal, yet yearn to be mortal." 

"Ayesha, it's not like that!" 

"Certainly it is. I know you too well. You shun your own kind - you, the oldest of all." Her eyes flashed; no doubt she was envisioning him on a throne, with her on a matching throne - queen of the world. "You should be their king!" 

They began to walk again, down the long incline into the valley. "Alas," said Methos, "that I am merely your slave!" 

"And don't think my life has no hardships. In every letter, my father asks when I will give him grandsons. How can I tell him that my own husband is fast becoming young enough to play the part? Bah! Enough of it." She clapped her hands imperiously, called out in Hindustani. "Nain Singh, thou son of a bandit! Fetch my carbine, saddle Wadduda! Let us see if there is any hunting to be found in this benighted wilderness-- What is it, Methos?" 

Methos had halted. One of the pilgrims had just handed him a rupee. And in so doing, turned his wrist into the light and revealed the tattoo of a Watcher. 

"Another immortal is here," he whispered. 

#

. . . but that had been hundreds of miles from Sangnachos zong, decades in the past, and as for Ayesha, she had been murdered in Shanghai long, long ago. 

In the present day, Sangnachos zong lamasery lay twelve miles from Tsawa - near the summit of a pass, at the wellspring of a tributary of the Giamo nu chu. It was no wonder that it had escaped looting or attack: to reach it, the three Watchers had to travel a sheer-sided gorge that seemed to climb forever into the Himalayas, along a path hewed from the mountain walls. It reminded Mallison, he said, of the Grand Canyon. When told that Sangnachos zong was provisioned by porters toting hundred-pound sacks on their backs, he wondered why there were no burros for the job. Or mules. Surely there were mules? After all, the Project Shangri-la party was accompanied not only by a guide, but by a flock of complaining sheep being driven up to the lamasery. The humans could have ridden burros, and saved their legs. 

He stopped complaining after they crossed the first cable bridge. Here the path ended, resuming on the far side of the gorge; there was a tiny hut (on the far side) and a single leather cable strung loosely across the void - sagging almost fifteen feet at its lowest point. Beneath this point, the gorge plunged ninety yards straight down, into a boulder-studded torrent of water. 

The sheep baaed, huddled on the brink of the abyss. The guide bellowed across the gorge. A squat native in a fur hat emerged from the hut, looked over in apparent disgust, and began to knot a rope around his waist. Then, towing this rope behind him, he crossed the cable. Sliding down halfway, and climbing hand-over-hand by main strength up the other half. 

The travelers were hauled across in pairs, tied onto a wooden hook fixed to the cable. They slid down, and were hauled up again; it was better than a ride at Disneyworld. Mallison had to share his ride with an ewe trussed in a sack, its head and forelegs sticking out, and it bleated all the way across (he said afterward) as if bound for the depths of hell. 

There were seven more such bridges to cross, before they reached the lamasery. 

By then, the torrent had shrunk to a disappointing trickle. Both Methos and Mallison were dizzy, light-headed from the altitude - while the Tibetans hired to carry the baggage and relicts stepped along as lightly as if empty-handed. They walked up a final slope floored with granite rubble, and arrived at a plateau surrounded by snowy peaks. Against this beautiful backdrop, the lamasery buildings rose like peaks themselves -snowy white, each with a broad horizontal band of brilliant red encircling its upper walls. Atop the roof of the main temple with its blue-and-scarlet gates stood the Buddha's emblem, cast in solid gold: the eight-spoked Wheel of the Law, flanked by a brace of prick-eared deer. 

The lamas wore the red and saffron of the Yellow-cap sect, Methos noticed - but there were a few Red-caps among them too, and they were female as well as male; just as at Sanding, which like this place was presided over by a woman. But the founder of Sangnachos zong was, of course, not available to visitors. Instead, an interim abbot met them at the doors: a tall fat-bellied Yellow-cap with bristling grey whiskers, avid for the tribute they brought. He welcomed them with open arms, and right there in the lamasery portico the sacks of antiques and armor were opened, with a dozen admiring lamas chanting prayers over them. In a trice, the gifts vanished. The abbot beamed and shook Methos heartily by the hand, uttering a stream of pleasantries. Methos bowed. Everyone bowed. Chang, who was evidently well known to the lamas, took Methos by the elbow and began to walk, talking as he did - translating the abbot's remarks. And Methos tuned out the abbot's voice, because after all Adam Pierson didn't speak Tibetan. 

And as he passed into the main temple with its rows of prayer benches, he felt it all around him . . . like a chorus of bells, some near and some far, some ancient and some new: the echo of fellow immortals. Dozens of immortals. 

"Notice the prayer wheels," Chang murmured. "The abbot asks you to spin one as you pass - it is inscribed with the holy phrase _Om mani padme hum_ , repeated one hundred and eight times, and the act of spinning it is a holy rite, as if the phrase had been uttered aloud. Those side doors lead to rooms filled with prayer drums, each of which holds all one hundred and eight volumes of Buddhist holy scripture. When one spins them, one acquires just as much merit as if every volume had been read aloud." 

"Don't mock such holy things," Methos said. He smiled at the abbot. 

"The Tibetans dislike the Chinese, and we Chinese are admittedly xenophobic." Chang spread his hands, nodding. "The peasants brought to colonize the empty lands of Tibet are uneducated country folk, and there have been incidents. And yes, lamaseries have been sacked and desecrated. Are you going to repeat the usual Western sermon about imperialist invasion?" 

"No. I was admiring the swords behind the abbot's throne." 

The abbot, nodding, motioned to Methos to look more closely at these swords. There was a great jumble of them - scores of swords, perhaps a hundred or more. Every sword had been disabled. The blade of each had been bent into a spiral like an eccentric corkscrew. 

"He says the spiraled swords are very holy and each one was bent by lama adepts, by tantric magic. He says that all over Tibet, such swords are treasured . . . but this lamasery has more of them than anywhere else." 

Mallison was right behind them, obediently quiet, but peering keenly at the spiraled swords. Methos said, "I see a katana there, at the bottom of the pile. That one next to it looks like a Hungarian cavalry sabre. And there - isn't that an eighteenth-century Dutch naval cutlass?" 

"Yes," Chang said. "We Watchers believe that these swords belonged to immortals." 

They passed out of the main temple, and began to walk through a series of side chapels gaudily decorated with demonic images and their counterpart Bodhisattvas. 

"The abbot says that after the distinguished guest from Paris has toured the lamasery, he would be pleased to invite us all to tea. This way . . . You know, up to the present century we Watchers barely troubled ourselves with Tibet, because there seemed to be no immortals at all here? Even those immortals originally from here appeared to leave as soon as possible. An empty country. Not worth our while." 

"And then?" 

"Then we began to hear rumors of immortal lamas - rumors so prevalent that they even passed into the realm of Western literature. And we found these three lamaseries. Each more than five hundred years old. Each housing, according to the monks, a complement of supreme adepts who cannot age or die." 

With two junior monks still in attendance, they passed through a final chapel and out into sunlight. Here was the back terrace of the temple. It looked very old, far older than the rest. Against the side of a mountain, shoulder-high stone walls ran in either direction; the ground was slanting, uneven, covered with boulders and slabs of rock. The abbot gestured, spoke. 

And now the presence of other immortals hung in the air like a babble of voices. 

"He says that here, the monks immure themselves to meditate. This way. Mind your step. They wall themselves into cells cut in the mountainside - there's the first of them, behind that stone there. See it? Sometimes for a week, sometimes for six months, and some take vows and immure themselves for life. They are fed once a day by the other monks. Go this way. The abbot invites you to knock on one of the cell doors." 

Methos shook his head. "I'll pass." 

Chang translated. "The abbot understands you don't want to interrupt the holy men in their meditation. You've impressed him, by the way. Most visitors are eager to see the anchorites, though I don't recommend it myself. I've seen them fumble their stones back at the knock and grope out their hands to be fed . . . it's like looking on the living dead." 

"They're not all immortals, then." 

"No. Most of them are as mortal as you or I. Though the one behind the slab we're passing now - see it, Mallison? - that one is a Basque woman, born around the year fifteen-twelve. And she has been walled up there, according to the other lamas, for almost fifty years." 

Mallison whispered, "How do they know she's still alive?" 

"Shh . . . she still comes for food. Her name is Marguerite Buerguoys." 

They walked in silence along the long row of cells. Ahead of them, the path rose a little and then ended at what was evidently a ceremonial place, decorated with banners strung on poles and stuck like flags in small cairns of stones. Some of the banners were faded almost white, tattered to shreds; they were decades old. The cairns were composed of heaped _mani_ -stones, chiseled all over with Tibetan script. 

The path terminated in the lintel and posts of a doorway carved into the mountainside. But where the door should be was only a slope composed of thousands of _mani-_ stones, stacked higher than Methos' head. The doorway had been completely covered with these stones. 

Here, they all halted. The monks trailing behind them broke into chanted prayers. The abbot pointed proudly to the doorway, delivering a long speech. 

"Here lies the founder of Sangnachos zong. The great Incarnation. Sang Yum." 

The monks chanted. 

"She has been behind that door for ninety-nine years. Her faith is so purified that she no longer requires food or drink . . . Once a year, the interrim abbot is required by the lamasery's rules to rap three times on the stones, and three raps always respond from the other side. Once a year. The last time they checked was six months ago." 

Methos stared at the doorway. There she was, walled up in the living rock. He could feel her there - the distinct signature of an elder immortal, like the notes of a familiar song. Little Sang Yum, the witch-woman. And he knew that she could recognize his presence. She would know who had come to visit her. 

The abbot was still speaking. "The legend has it," Chang translated, "that an imperial Manchu princess traveled into Tibet on a pilgrimage of devotion. Accompanied by her personal guard, a suite of servants, and one hundred and eight yaks loaded with gold and jade, she arrived eventually at the world-lotus, the swastika mountain at whose feet lies holy Lake Manasarovar. The font of the four great rivers of India, which spiral eight times around the mountain before taking their course south: the lion-mouth river, the peacock-mouth river, the horse-mouth river and the elephant-mouth river . . . the Ganges, Indus, Sutlej and Brahmaputra. This mountain has long been identified as the Tise, the world-pillar, abode of Shiva himself; also called Kang Rinpoche: jewel of the snows! It is the modern Mount Kailas." 

The abbot spoke on. 

"Here, the princess gained merit by making _perikarama_ , ritual circuits of the mountain: the twenty-one circuits demanded of a common pilgrim around the mountain's lower courses, eight circuits along the more perilous middle course - the pathway reserved for lamas and initiates - and finally a single _perikarama_ along the uppermost course, at the end of which all her followers were dead of exhaustion and exposure, but she herself had attained the state of the Bodhisattvas, incarnated Buddhas who delay Nirvana in order to alleviate the world's ills . . . Then, taking all her treasure with her, she founded this very monastery, the Fortress of the Holy Spring, and here eventually retired to a hermit's cell, to meditate - never aging, never weary or hungry - until the day comes when she will emerge to save Tibet in its hour of greatest need." 

The doorway lay before them, mute and blind. 

Methos drew a deep breath, gazing at his feet. The abbot bowed and opened his mouth to continue. Then he broke off, his head turning. 

A sharp rap had sounded from the cell. 

Another rap. Another. The Watchers drew back instinctively, the monks rushed forward. They began to dig with their bare hands at the stacked _man_ i-stones, which rolled away in a fusillade of clatters and clinks - over which sounded the steady rapping behind the doorway. Now the stone slab that sealed the cell was visible, carved all over with tantric symbols and script. The heads of the lamas bobbed with excitement as they unearthed the door. The rapping never halted. Methos retreated a step or two, Mallison shoved forward, Chang's mouth was speechlessly opening and shutting. Three-quarters of the door was now clear. All three lamas mopped their brows, overcome with emotion. They whispered to one another, and the abbot issued orders. The two junior monks worked their hands into the rough edges of the door-slab, and heaved. 

The slab jarred forward, grating, screaming as it came. Then it fell on its face, and shattered in a dozen jagged pieces. 

Beyond lay a black chasm. 

The dust slowly settled. The junior monks clutched one another. The abbot was telling his rosary. Methos raised his eyes, and gazed into the darkness. 

At ground level, a hand came groping out of the shadows. It was wrapped all over in tattered rags - even the fingers were crudely swathed - and the arm that followed was also wrapped like a mummy's, in coarse musty spider-grey cloth that began to shred and dissolve even as it met the chill high-country air. A long swath of material unwound and lay trailing across the stones. Another hand fumbled forward, clutching weakly at nothing; then a small figure swaddled all over lurched out into the light. There was a high frail cry like the piping of a bird. 

The bandages were falling apart, breaking in rigid patches and puffs of tired dust . . . leaving glimpses of golden skin, firm and rounded and glowing with youth. At the shake of the mummy's head a whole section of wrappings fell, and out tumbled a flood of straight, silken, jet-black hair. She was kneeling on the _mani_ -stones now, lifting her covered face instinctively to the bright sky. Shaking the grey dust out of her hair. And then a laugh like a cascade of golden bells sounded! 

Sang Yum rose to her tiny feet, shrugging off the last fragments that covered her. 

A naked Chinese woman, slitting her eyes, smiling at the kiss of the sun. She was as young as a new morning, as perfect as a freshly-opened flower. Mallison was trembling as if he was seeing a vision. And she was opening her eyes wide now, looking about her. Black eyes - their lashes like long fans with curling tips. Her mouth was a pale rose. Her cheeks were rosy pink. 

She looked at them, and spoke. 

"Ningma-ningma?" she asked, in Tibetan a hundred years out of date. "Ningma-ningma, most ancient of ancients . . . Has the Gathering arrived, then?" 

TO BE CONTINUED . . .


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adam Pierson, in Tibet, totally surrounded by Watchers, needs to stay in character while searching for the one and only Methos Photograph. Immortal headhunters are on their way. His fellow Watchers think he's just a harmless researcher, but if they discover his real identity, well, they're quite capable of executing him. And one of the immortals about to arrive knows he's Methos ...

Imagine the usual disclaimers. Tibet, Manasarovar and Kailas are real; all else is illusion.   


Warning: I eat nonfiction, spit out fiction.   
  
  
  


Lost Horizon 

Act Two   


_"As the dew is dried up by the morning sun_

_so are the sins of men dried up by the sight of the Himalaya . . ._

There are no mountains like the Himalaya, 

for in them are Kailas and Manasarovar." 

From the Skanda Purana

" _Ningma-ningma_ ," said Mallison. "Meaning 'most ancient of the ancient'. It's the title of a Red-cap lama, that's what it is!"   


"Right - the male equivalent of _sang yum_ , 'secret mother'. Which is the title of a tantric sorceress, the wife of a Red-cap sorcerer." Methos was saying this for the fifth time. He said it patiently, with a hint of dogged weariness. "She meant Naro-Bonchung. Who else could she have meant?"   


"Oh, I dunno. Seen any six-foot-seven assassins lurking in the arras round here?" His voice rose. "Or d'you think he's the interim abbot, padded and disguised?" 

Methos shot him a nasty look. "No. I think she was dazed by sunlight, confused by fresh air after ninety-nine years walled up in a stuffy cell, and mistook the interim abbot's yellow cap for red. What d'you think I think?! I think she was talking to you, you yob!"   


"In my dreams!" Mallison fired back. "How come you think she even knows this Naro guy?"   


"Read their chronicles, find out for yourself!"   


There were four other Watchers in the big colorful room, for these were the quarters assigned to Project Shangri-la. They were pleasant quarters, their walls painted brilliant red and then decorated with capering blue bull-demons and Buddhist saints. And their tables strewn with Watcher papers and books, with computers trailing cables, with half-empty tins of spam. An immensely fat Maine coon, the pet of one of the Watchers, ruled over the whole roost. Even now, this cat came waddling through the mess of electrical cables, and bumped its leonine head against Mallison's calf.   


He reached down and rubbed its jaw. ". . . wasn't she a movie-star, though? Looked good enough to eat--"   


"Who? Sang Yum?"   


"You got it!" He smacked his lips. "Yum-yum!"   


"I don't suggest you harbor any intentions in that direction, Mr Mallison." Chang had just appeared in the doorway. "And don't call her 'Yum-Yum'."   


The other Watchers grinned.   


"Back to work, all of you. Have we got the latest reports on Naro-Bonchung's movements? And Immortal Maiden's? Once the latest news from the lamasery works its way down to Tsawa, I expect the two of them to be on the move . . . Ah, very good." Chang moved through the room, speaking to the busy Watchers, stopping to discuss whatever work they had at hand. He had a satchel of postcards and letters which he had evidently just unearthed from his luggage. The Watchers of Sangnachos zong grabbed eagerly for their mail, which Chang handed over with an expression of benevolence; it was like watching Santa Claus at a children's party. Finally he strolled around to Methos and Mallison and the Maine coon cat, which was now prostrate at Mallison's feet, forepaws loosely linked round his ankle.   


"How is your altitude sickness?" he inquired. "You both look indisposed."   


"Don't ask," said Mallison darkly. "Thank God my room's on the ground floor, that's all I can say."   


"And you, Mr Pierson? Very good. A word of warning: the lamas have already been dropping hints that the Incarnation wishes to interview an European. At any moment, expect an invitation to tea--"   


Mallison piped up, "You mean, with her? - w-with Sang Yum?"   


"Yes. With Sang Yum. But remember your disguise, Mr Mallison! And wait your chance. Perhaps you'll be able to speak with her later."   


"I can't talk to her," said Methos. He let his eyes widen. "I don't speak Tibetan."   


"She's an immortal. She speaks at least eleven languages that we know of . . . I caught a few words of yours from the doorway. You've read Naro-Bonchung's Chronicles?"   


That was a trick question. "I know something about one volume," Methos said.   


"One volume - yes. Which also contains references to Sang Yum. It doesn't surprise me, of course. How could a Methos historian neglect their connection to the infamous eighteen-ninety-eight sighting at Mount Kailas?"   


"--and that's why I know about her and Naro-Bonchung." Methos sighed. "Christ, did you think I had forgotten? Part of the reason I came to Tibet was to see the Kailas Photograph!"   


"What's this Kailas Photograph?" said Mallison, confused.   


Chang answered, standing by the window. "In eighteen-ninety-eight, purely by chance, Naro-Bonchung's Watcher spotted Methos. The oldest immortal. Traveling as part of the suite of a noblewoman from Alexandria named - named--"   


"Ayesha Quartermain," Methos said. "Her name was Ayesha Quartermain and she was an actress and stage singer who also dabbled in the occult and was making some sort of comic-opera pilgrimage up the Ganges. Anyway, Naro-Bonchung's Watcher heard her address her traveling priest as 'Methos' and of course he did the right thing, dropped his own immortal and spent the next several weeks shadowing the Quartermain party. He actually spoke to this priest. His report of the conversation includes a photograph of Methos, the only likeness ever captured. The original is here in this lamasery, in Naro-Bonchung's chronicles." He added, "Volume sixteen."   


Chang turned and smiled. He pointed. "Yes, Mr Pierson. It's over there, on the third shelf. Do take it down."   


Methos stood staring at the shelves of chronicles. Then he walked across and fumbled the small leatherbound volume down, letting it rest between his hands.   


"I've seen facsimiles, of course," he said quietly.   


"Do you know what page to look for?" Chang had crossed the room and was standing at his shoulder.   


"One hundred and eight, I think." He let himself breath faster; it was not difficult to pin the right expression on his face. "Part of the reason I came to Tibet was to examine the original with my own eyes--"   


He stroked the cracked leather cover.   


"Well, go on!" said Mallison. "Open it!"   


"It's the only photograph ever taken of my immortal," Methos repeated. "The only image existing. The drawings and descriptions we have are all contradictory, and he hasn't been sighted at all this century." He turned to them, eyes shining. "Imagine it--"   


"--being assigned to an immortal who hasn't been sighted for a hundred years," Chang finished. "I can sympathize. But perhaps Methos, too, will surface soon." He put his hand over Methos' on the book's cover. "Don't open it yet. I need your undivided attention for a few moments. Perhaps in the hall?"   


"Let me do it." Mallison grabbed the chronicle, leering.   


"As long as you give it back to Adam when we're done." Chang took Methos by the arm. "Now come along, come along. I won't keep you long."   


They left Mallison sitting there, paging through the book.   


A step through the door found them in one of the lamasery hallways, in reasonable privacy. None of the lamas happened to be passing; Methos gathered that few ever did. No doubt they had better things to do. The hall itself was dim, vividly decorated, lined by double rows of brass prayer wheels greasy with butter and grime. Beyond the wheels, the walls were hung with embroidered banners, from which Chang averted his eyes. Methos glanced at them in mild curiosity: most of the embroidery depicted tantric gods and demons. Male and female. Entwined together. Graphically illustrating the mystic union of lingam and yoni or, in Tibetan terms, the yab and the yum. And he waited for Chang to speak.   


"Sang Yum," said Chang at last. "So far as her opening words went, I myself find her question more intriguing. 'Has the Gathering arrived?' she asked - why was that, I ask in return? What sign did she receive?"   


"Well." Methos shrugged. "Have you heard that many immortals used to believe this was the distant land to which they would be drawn in the final days of the Game? The far-away place, where the last battle would be fought. The most remote place on earth - Tibet."   


"Yes, I've heard that."   


"Well, maybe that's it. Maybe these communities of immortals are waiting on holy ground for the last days. For the Gathering."   


"Mm. An interesting hypothesis. Perhaps Sang Yum herself, adroitly questioned . . . but we are getting ahead of ourselves here." Chang put out a hand and touched Methos, looking keenly at him. "She wants to talk with you. Adam, you're not a field agent, you're not trained for this. Now you will have to deal with an immortal. Speaking to her, you must weigh every sentence twice, never betray your knowledge of her nature. Not by a word, not by a glance. Pull down your sleeve and keep that cuff buttoned from this moment on. Are you afraid of immortals?"   


"I . . . I've met one. One immortal. You know about Duncan MacLeod?"   


"MacLeod. Ah yes. The other immortal in the Galati affair?"   


"Yes, Joe Dawson's immortal . . . Joe's a friend."   


"That one!" said Chang, and shook his head. "The Scottish saint. The reports coming out of the Paris bureau were unbelievable, the stuff of the wildest fiction . . . but I begin to see. I think I begin to see. You aren't afraid of immortals, because the only one you have ever known is MacLeod--"   


"I told you, they make me nervous!"   


"Nervousness is not fear. I've seen promising recruits soil themselves when first confronted by an immortal. As if they had been forced into proximity with live cobras. Tell me about MacLeod, then - about your impression of him."   


"He's - he's very intimidating. He's abrupt, he moves and speaks quickly - loudly. It's strange, really. He's unpredictable. I never knew what he was going to do."   


That was the truth.   


"What does he look like?" Chang added slyly, "I have seen pictures, but all you Caucasians look alike to me. As, I'm told, all Chinese look alike to Tibetans."   


"Well, he's dark-skinned, brown-eyed. Long curly hair. Muscles like Hercules, moves like a cat. You know the type of immortal: studies every known school of martial arts, practices day and night. The formidable type."   


"Mmm. And his character? In the reports, he sounds quite intriguing."   


"Very - Japanese."   


Like a fiery god out of Japanese mythology. Methos thought of the Shinto pantheon; there was one of the brothers of Amaterasu - a storm-god, rude and intractable. One who stirred up trouble wherever he went. One whose reckless humors, in all the myths, drove his gracious sister wild. What had his name been? Ah, yes: Susano-O-no-Mikoto. Meaning, 'His Brave Swift Impetuous Male Augustness' . . .   


Chang was waiting. He said, aloud, "Oh, not in any surface mannerisms, but in spirit. He has the samurai mindset, that kamikaze attitude: unable to give up, unafraid to die. Reluctant to accept defeat, but never from fear. I don't think he's really had much experience with surrender or pain."   


. . . Or like one of the Shinto fire-gods: the Fire-Burning-Swift Male Spirit, perhaps - he who even in birth scorched his mother barren, killing her; so that his grieving father struck off his head with the sword named Heavenly Point Blade Extended? A very immortal story. A very immortal way to die. All those who drew too close to MacLeod should expect to get their fingers burnt. He was by nature a red-hot creature, hasty, impatient. That was exactly why Methos liked him.   


"Rather like Mallison, really," he mused.   


"Mr Mallison is not Japanese."   


"No, of course not. Still in an odd way they're much the same - both of them very young. Oh, I know MacLeod's hundreds of years old, but he's still just like some of the students at Paris University. Immature. Passionately concerned with right and wrong. Convinced that he can change the world."   


Chang was staring at him. He shook himself, lifted one hand, gave the senior Watcher a smile and a self-deprecating shrug.   


"I know, I know, that sounds quite mad--"   


"How old are you, Adam?"   


"What?"   


Chang put a hand on his wrist, over the hidden Watcher tattoo. He said, gently, "Your superiors in Europe are worried about you, you know. They've spoken to me. Twenty-six Watchers assigned to the Paris bureau have already resigned. You're the best young historian we've seen this generation. They don't want to lose you too."   


Methos spoke to the dusty lamasery floor. "I don't know who I am anymore."   


"You're one of us, Adam. Never doubt that you are valued." Chang pressed his wrist. "Now come back inside, and let's take a look at that photograph."   


But when they stepped through the door, Mallison looked up and complained, "You got the wrong book, Adam, this has to be the wrong one - I've gone through the whole damn thing and there's not a single photograph in it! It's got to be one of the other chronicles." And there they stood, looking at the long rows of Naro-Bonchung chronicles. Over fifty volumes, in perhaps ten languages. Dusty, battered, handwritten books. "So which one is it?" demanded Mallison, crossly.   


Methos said, mild as Clark Kent: "I thought it was sixteen."   
  


* * *

 

Sang Yum arrived that afternoon.   


At the time, Methos was sitting atop one of the long worktables, eating baked beans out of a can. He stiffened, feeling the warning of another immortal's approach, just as there was a commotion at the door. And in came a swirl of lamas in their long red robes, in their saffron felt hats with tall crests of yellow-dyed fleece. They carried tea-trays, braziers, small brass chests, rolled mats and folding chairs. Last of all was a small figure in robes whose colors reversed those of the yellow caps: a flowing yellow gown, a scarlet headdress. Her headdress was built up in a mohawk plume of stiffened horsehair, which added more than a foot to her height. Her hands were folded serenely into the sleeves of her robes. Across the length of the untidy room, her twinkling eyes looked for Methos.   


The Watchers stood looking on all agape, while in a trice the invasion force of busy lamas whisked through the room. They cleared and set the longest table, magically producing little brass vases filled with nodding poppies whose color alone was a miracle: some were wine-purple, and some were blue, vivid as the sky. Incense was sprinkled on the braziers. Fragrant smoke drifted through the room, mingling with the reek of a dozen traditional lamps. Those lamps were engraved brass cups, in which wicks burned with a pale light, set upright in masses of butter. Yak butter.   


Each of the Watchers was approached and presented with the gift of a white silk scarf. Chang bowed profoundly and came forward bearing his own scarf, which he laid down before Sang Yum. She accepted with a speech which Methos ignored, since Adam Pierson did not speak Tibetan; then with Chang to translate, she was moving around the room, stepping bemused over the electrical cables and touching the computers . . . whose screens, at her entrance, had been swiftly cleared by the Watchers. The Watchers had swept all their incriminating papers up, hiding them from Sang Yum. The Watchers, like the good psychic researchers of their cover story, watched Sang Yum with gimlet eyes; and Sang Yum, like a good immortal, was surely not about to raise the subject of her one-hundred-year-long entombment. Presumably she would pretend to be a fake, and they would pretend to be debunking her.   


She spoke to every Watcher, and when it was his turn Mallison turned brick-red and stammered; and Sang Yum favored him with a smile. Then there she was before Methos, speaking in the musical voice he remembered. In fluent Manchu - an extinct tongue, which only a historian of language would understand. "Dear friend, I regret my blurted question in front of these mortals. But - I hope - you did come here to visit me?"   


"It's a matter of the conscience and the heart." No one else present could eavesdrop on what they said; but they couldn't speak long here. "We can talk later."   


"This century has passed me by like a single night's dreaming," she replied. Her gaze went to the computers. "But the whole world has changed. Remember me, and our old friend Lobon? And you were with your delightful wife."   


"He lives. But she is dead, of course . . . I had a student, a child named Peach. My student killed her."   


She touched his face with a fingertip. Then she had turned away, and the lamas were pouring tea for everyone. Methos sat down, holding his cup of greasy butter tea. He sipped, watching her question Chang about modern technology. While behind them was the wall of shelved chronicles, just out of her line of sight. With two of the junior Watchers poised to distract her the instant she glanced that way.   


She didn't know about the Watchers; Darius had never told her. In the back of his mind, Methos devised three different ways to keep her from learning. While gazing down into his teacup, and remembering Ayesha . . .   
  


* * *

 

In eighteen ninety-eight:   


It was Muslim tea at Ayesha's table: lotus-seed tea, sweetened with crystals of rock sugar, and served in enameled cups with lids like the spires of mosques. There were sesame-seed fritters and candy biscuits, and half the low tin table had been cleared, to make way for her traveling chess set. She sat upon a cushion, her fingers sticky with sugar, and considered the chessboard.   


Her hand hovered over the pieces. The set had been a wedding gift: the board was painted and embroidered silk, and the pieces were ivory and rosewood, hand-carved so that every red pawn was a sheep, every white pawn a greyhound. And every court piece was a small, perfect scene. The kings were Arab warriors mounted upon camels, depicted with rifles in their hands, with war-mares trotting alongside; the queens were veiled women, enthroned upon their own camels in litters like tall howdahs. As for the bishops, those were entire mosques crowned by prayer-towers. Each castle was a walled and fortified town. She was playing against Methos, and Methos was winning.   


Not that Ayesha minded losing. Ayesha loved to play, and she attacked the game of chess as she attacked the game of life; not because she expected to win, but for the sake of the assault. Mingled in her veins was the blood of Roman conquerors, Bedouin nomads, Egyptian pharaohs and Ptolemaic princes. A thousand generations of victors had made her into a fighter.   


Now she moved her rook, knocking over a tiny lamb-pawn with a decisive click. "There! Take that! . . . And this other immortal," she added, "have you discovered him yet?"   


Methos moved his knight, which was an Arabic horseman plunging forward in a charge. "Not yet. Hence we are camped here on the shore of the lake."   


"I thought the whole valley was holy ground?"   


"Lake Manasarover is certainly holy. The rest of the valley is debatable. Of course a wise immortal always gives the benefit of the doubt where holy ground is concerned - but I've know people to make mistakes." He moved again. "And there are some immortals out there who'll attack anybody anywhere, anytime," he added. "For any excuse."   


She moved, saying, "Check. And the mountain, too, is holy?"   


"Most definitely holy."   


"And you are determined to walk around it. I spoke to some monks this afternoon, you know. They come from that temple at the foot of the mountain: see there? Nyandi Gompa, it's called." She pointed straight up. "That's the start of the path round the mountain. Thirty miles all told, they said. Up there, across glaciers and snowfields. Old pilgrims die of it, they said. Two days in purgatory, even for a strong man."   


"I've got time." He moved out of check.   


"You're mad," said Ayesha, with conviction. "Check!"   


Her pavilion, hung about with gay silk banners, had been pitched on the barren shore of Lake Manasarovar, upon a natural isthmus between these holy waters and those of the companion lake . . . Lakgal, bridegroom of Manasarovar. Both lakes were beautiful - clear and placid and shining under the crystal blue skies. Around them stretched a valley too high above sea level for life, too cold, too windswept to be anything but a desert; yet this blighted wasteland was jeweled with temples, teeming with monks and blissful pilgrims. And over all towered holy Mount Kailas.   


Every fifteen years, the legend went, Manasarovar the bride and Lakgal the groom overflowed their shores and met in ecstatic union. However, this year the isthmus was bone dry. Methos sat cross-legged on the ground, his ochre pilgrim's robe bright against grey earth. He advanced his queen, taking a pawn which was a gamboling ivory greyhound. "Check and mate," he said.   


"What?" She was incredulous; then she burst out laughing and swept up all the pieces together, rolling them up in their board. "You always win. Why do I stay with you? I could have had ambassadors, German princes for the snap of a finger--" she snapped her fingers "--yes, for the lifting of my finger - why did I marry you?"   


"You married me because your father thought I knew the Koran better than any other infidel alive," said Methos. He ate a biscuit. "He wanted you to convert me - remember?"   


"I should have stayed in Alexandria like my sisters. I could have married a rich merchant. I could have had twenty children by now!" Her lips thinned: he was not listening to her. "And you would not be burdened with an old woman in your bed."   


Methos sighed dramatically. He lay back flat on the ground, and began to declaim in Arabic:   


"Behold my mother! 

A camel at her master's tomb 

A demon's shadow 

Starved to a witch's broom--"   


"Thou _ghulamiyeh_!" exclaimed Ayesha. She picked up the teapot and hurled it. It bounced; tea splashed far and wide; and Methos twisted, rolling along one shoulder and landing crouched on his heels, well out of the range of fire. He was grinning. She grabbed for a cup. " _Ghulamiyeh_ at a Turk's drinking party!"   


"--Her only fortune: me 

Five laying hens 

One white goat 

A scabby camel 

And two gelded cocks--"   


" _Zerboun! Cochon!_ Son of a slave's camel--" She broke off. "What is it, my heart?"   


"Another immortal. No, don't go for your gun, beloved." He had backed away and now stood, arms crossed, on the very edge of the water. He was looking at a file of people who were even now about to arrive at their camp.   


Ayesha was also standing. She kicked the teapot aside and raised her eyebrows at the invasion: a ill-assorted lot of guards, Mongol and Indian and Nepalese, and in their midst a tiny Chinese woman. One of the guards was the Watcher Methos had spotted the day before. As for the woman, she was lavishly and wonderfully garbed, in a sable-edged hat studded with seed pearls, in shining necklaces of large pearls dangling over her fur-trimmed robe. She smiled and spoke, putting her hands together and bobbing her head in a bow. "Good day!"   


"Is this the one, my love?" said Ayesha suspiciously, over her shoulder.   


"Be polite, Ayesha. This is a friend." Methos walked forward. " _Namaste_ . . . Good day, Lo-Tsen. Is it still Lo-Tsen?"   


The tiny Manchu woman looked at him and laughed. "Ah! Weren't you calling yourself Ahaseurus, last time we met?"   


"That was a long time ago. I'm Allan Quartermain now."   


"Quartermain," she said, amused. "You make a most unlikely Englishman - but then, this is no country for the English. Here in Tibet, though, they call me Sang Yum."   


"'Secret mother'? Well, well. This is my wife, Ayesha. You are welcome in our camp--"   


"--so long as I am not headhunting?" She lifted her hands. "Behold me. I think you are somewhat over my weight, and in any case I have not carried a sword for over four hundred years. But I must warn you that there is another immortal here. His name is Lobon Naro-Bonchung and he will certainly try to take your head."   


Ayesha was watching her like a hawk.   


"Naro-Bonchung?" asked Methos. "A friend of yours?"   


"He is my husband," said Sang Yum.   


Ayesha relaxed. "Do sit down. Nain Singh! More tea."   


And so in ten minutes they were all amiably drinking tea and munching on biscuits, reinforced by sweet rice balls and potent amber liquor which had come all the way from Ninghsia. Sang Yum had brought gifts along with these provisions: a phoenix-framed mirror, lengths of dragon brocade and Indian silk, and three or four Russian sables worth their weight in gold. "We were in Mongolia last year," she explained. "By autumn we must be at Samarkand. I heard, though, that in this other camp was a woman lovelier than Venus, a woman worthy of an emperor." She bowed again. "Or of an immortal."   


Ayesha turned the mirror in her hands, and hissed, "Do you play chess?"   


Again they were interrupted. Ayesha was familiar with the signs of one immortal recognizing another; when Methos rose to his feet, she set down her cup and retreated to the entrance of her tent. There she stayed, hovering. This newest arrival was very formidable! He came alone, and he was huge - a giant, swarthy and long-mustached, with dashing white teeth that gleamed in the sun. His clothes were Mongol sheepskins, with the fleece turned inside against the cold . . . but Mongol sheepskins worn under a brilliant red serge vest, under swags of silver chain studded with corals. Two ceremonial knives hung at his sides, and his leather boots were splendidly tooled. This was the garb of a wealthy man, a leader of other men. And in his bare fist he hefted an iron blade that must have weighed five pounds.   


He had eyes only for Methos.   


"So you're the one." He lifted the blade and leered. "Scrawny. No sword. Come, let's fight."   


Methos took a step backward and stood still, quite composed, with his feet in the freezing cold water of the lake. "I don't think so," he said. "Have we been introduced?"   


"Does that matter? I see you're disguised as a holy man. I see you brought your woman along with you, too." He looked Ayesha up and down, as one might look at a dancing girl in a wineshop. "Expensive merchandise, too much so for priests. Handsome."   


Ayesha took a step forward and clapped her hands for her servants. "Too expensive for you, I fear. My husband, shall I have him whipped from your presence?"   


"No, Ayesha. Please invite him to share our tea."   


"I will not!" Ayesha's color was high. "You! Apologize."   


"Heh." He waggled the sword, suggestively. "Perhaps when your man is dead, I'll take you for a second wife. Priest, holy ground won't save your neck - will you come along with me now, or wait for later?" He waited. "Hah. Wife! Come along now! And don't forget to say goodbye."   


"Do come back later, Sang Yum," Ayesha said coldly. All her servants had come up, bearing an unlikely assortment of arms: rusty cutlasses, machetes, even a musket or two. "As for you, man, hear me now! Disturb my lord again, and you'll be sorry."   
  


* * *

 

"I dealt well with that ruffian," she proclaimed, hours later, in the sanctuary of their tent. She had lit three braziers and a lamp, and the little tent was close and warm and snug; rugs from Bokhora glowed underfoot like jewels, heaped three deep, and their bed was a couch of thick supple bear pelts, with a tigerskin thrown atop. Her folding screen painted with a scene of dromedaries stood in one corner, her mahogany traveling chests were at the head and foot of the bed. Ayesha sat upon one of these chests. There was a book open on her knee, and she was brushing her hair.   


"Throw that rag out the door," she added. "The lice are so thick upon it that you can brush them off in regiments."   


"What, and you haven't got just as many?" Methos pulled the threadbare ochre robe over his head, and flung it away from him. He stretched.   


"I washed in the lake. Come here. I want them out of your hair before you come to bed."   


She washed his hair, using carbolic soap, and rubbed it dry. Then she made him sit between her knees while she combed it out with her special fine-toothed comb. "There, that's better. All warm?"   


Methos fell back and lay sprawled in relaxation, on the tigerskin, arms spread and one knee raised. His hair, which was long and brown and very straight, now shone with cleanliness. He turned his head lazily, eyes glinting. "I'm your rag doll."   


"My slave." Ayesha leaned over him, drawing strands of his hair through her fingers - much as, earlier, she had caressed Sang Yum's gift of sables. With her other hand she turned idly from page to page of her book. "The Dragonfly Skims the Surface," she murmured, playing with his hair. "No. Pushing the Boat Downstream . . . Letting the Bee Make Honey? No. The Starving Horse Races to the Trough--"   


"What the hell are you reading?"   


She read: "'Two Dragons Who Fight Till They Drop: this is a state of calm after furious activity. The woman's head rests beside the pillow and her hands droop in defeat, as soft as cotton floss. The man's head rests beside her neck, and his whole body droops also.' And look, there's a picture."   


Methos sat bolt upright, looking at the picture. "That's a pillow book. That's a Chinese pillow book?"   


"Sang Yum put it secretly in my hand. I read the whole thing while you were playing knucklebones with the servants - now lie still, I'm choosing an illustration. What about this one? Lowering the Yin to Meet the Yang."   


He considered the illustration. "Actually that's just like Dousing the Candle. Except the woman needs thighs of steel, because--"   


"You've read it already?" said Ayesha in indignation.   


"Well, it looks familiar." He turned the cover back with a fingertip. "Yes, that's it: 'The Unofficial History of the Embroidered Couch'. I used to know the man who wrote it."   


Ayesha scowled. "I can never surprise you. Those two other immortals - Sang Yum and her husband. An ill-assorted pair, aren't they?"   


"Sang Yum is a student of Darius', and I suspect Naro-Bonchung is too. That could explain it. You can always expect the unexpected from Darius students."   


"And I suppose you have known that woman, that woman Sang Yum - for a thousand years, or more?"   


"Not as well as I know you." He turned a page of the book, looking up at her.   


"But she's very beautiful, isn't she?" Suddenly Ayesha dropped the pillow book, cast herself into his arms, and began to cry stormy, beautiful tears: "Methos, she gave me a mirror - a mirror! - I looked in it and I have three grey hairs. My father wrote in his last letter that both my sisters were old and weary and of all his children, I was the one gifted with eternal youth. And I can't, can't surprise you anymore--"   


He stared blankly at her.   


"My sisters are younger than I and they are old women," Ayesha wept. "I'm forty-one years old."   


"You're a kitten. A child. You make me feel as old as time."   


She lifted her face, which had not been marred by weeping but only made larger-eyed, more delectable. "I do?"   


He began to speak. He broke off. He stiffened and his fingers dug into her arms. Ayesha turned her head just as the tent flap was ripped away. And Naro-Bonchung, roaring, shouldered his way in.   


A blast of cold air came with him. Ayesha screamed and pulled the silk wrap she wore closed around her shoulders and breasts. In the flickering lamplight, the strange immortal was enormous, overwhelmingly loud, frightening. His sword thrust up toward the ceiling as he sprang forward, overturning her little table with a kick of one foot, tracking dirt across the carpets. "Quartermain! There you are!"   


"You're drunk." Methos had flung himself sideways and now crouched next to one of the braziers, ready to fling hot coals at the other immortal's face. "Get out."   


Ayesha knelt glaring on the tigerskin. Naro-Bonchung swaggered further into the tent, a smile touching his lips as he took in the picture she made: her brilliant eyes, her long black hair streaming down over her beautiful bare arms. "I won't make you wait long, woman. Tell your husband to come outside."   


"Mannerless dog," she said. She stood up; he had eyes only for her now. "Go! Go now, or regret this."   


"Or if he won't come, maybe you should." And he laughed uproariously when she strode across the tent and retired behind her folding screen. "You wouldn't regret it! You would scream and beg with pleasure. I know things your skinny boy won't learn for hundreds of years--"   


"Oh, I don't think so," said Methos casually. He slid further sideways, toward the entrance. His sword was packed in Ayesha's chest, but there were weapons everywhere for those who knew: rugs, coals, the brazier's thin steel lances of legs, and of course Naro-Bonchung's own sword, for there were a hundred ways to take away the sword from an overconfident opponent - especially one who was drunk, and besotted with lust, and more interested in Ayesha behind her screen than in Methos himself--   


And even now, Naro-Bonchung was twirling his mustache, a glint in his eye as he stepped toward the screen. "Or maybe he's taught you special skills. You have the sleek look of the contented wife about you, perhaps there's much I can learn from you--"   


"No closer!" Ayesha ordered imperiously.   


He dipped a hand into the pouch at his belt, and withdrew it dripping with light - filled to overflowing with a treasure of Korean pearls, turquoise and coral set in massy silver. He dangled this necklace, so long that it swung halfway to his knees, in front of Ayesha's screen. "Don't decide too hastily. I'm very rich."   


"I said, no closer!"   


He flung the chain with a musical jingle onto the tigerskin bed. "But you're too lovely to leave here," he explained, reasonably. "Too alluring by far. I shall put aside my Manchu bitch, and have you for my wife instead." And now his fist had closed upon the flimsy screen, making it shake and quiver and rattle. "Ah, you're a coy one. Let's get acquainted--"   


The screen exploded.   


Shot pointblank, the huge immortal was flung backward - a great patch of black char blasted across the gaudy front of his vest. He flew straight through the entrance of the tent, landing hard on the stony ground. Surrounded by an admiring crowd who had come running at the sound of the gunshot. An excited buzz of voices rose. Naro-Bonchung, lying sprawled just outside the tent, was quite dead.   


Ayesha stepped across the burning ruin of the screen. Her long black curls streamed over her white shoulders and arms; her breasts heaved, her eyes flashed with excitement. In her hands she held her short-barreled carbine, its muzzle still smoking. The weapon, a wedding gift from her father, was older than she was; it had been looted from a French solder during the Napoleonic wars. It was one of her most prized possessions.   


Haughtily, she called out the entrance: "Drag that offal to the nearest midden heap, and throw it in." She added, " _Sala bahenchod_!"   


Methos secured the tent-flap, shutting out the eager eyes of the crowd. Ayesha tossed the carbine aside, shrugged off her wrapper and watched him watch the sheer fabric ripple to the ground, pooling in a shimmering heap at her feet. On his face was the expression that made her heart race: knowing, inviting, wellnigh depraved. That wicked expression.   


"You eternal child," he purred. "And you think you don't surprise me?"   


"He'll come back," Ayesha warned.   


"Let him!" said Methos.   
  


* * *

 

In the present day:   


"Hey, Adam! Come here!"   


Methos was crossing the lamasery courtyard. He glanced around, spotting Mallison by the dairy entrance - Mallison wearing the look of a conspirator, beckoning him over. Two Tibetans were hurrying off in the other direction. From the hides and furs they wore, from their wild and filthy hair, they would be _dopkas_ , the nomadic herdsmen of the wilderness. They looked just like cavemen.   


Mallison was jittering with excitement. "Look what I bought from those guys. They didn't give me trouble about my accent, they think Shigatze's like a foreign country anyway. And look at these!"   


Proudly, he exhibited a pair of long straight local swords. They were obviously old and had seen hard use, from the dints and nicks. The backs of their fortes showed rough file-marks stained with rust, the edges too had been filed and the blades themselves were unhealthily narrow in proportion to their length. But they were made from good steel, and looked serviceable.   


"All the country people carry weapons." He stroked one of the swords, hefted it, executed a mock thrust. "Look, Adam. You know the sword classes they make field Watchers take?"   


"Of course!" Methos pretended to shy back, hands up. "Hey! Watch that thing!"   


"Well, in New York we . . ." He came closer. "Listen. Some of us meet sometimes and practice real swordfighting. Like them."   


"Hey, that is so against the rules--"   


"Aw, field Watchers do it everywhere. Don't tell me they don't do it in Paris!"   


"They do it in Paris," Methos admitted; it was the truth. Watchers everywhere were enjoined to learn the finer points of swordplay, for the sake of accurate reporting. And young Watchers everywhere took the sword classes, and sneaked off in secret to pretend they were Immortals.   


"Don't tell me you never did it," Mallison insisted. He was grinning, now, from ear to ear. He struck a fairly good wheel, a novice's defensive posture: body sideways, fists up clenching the sword, left elbow out and weight on his forward knee. Then he screamed like Bruce Lee and tried to whirl the sword. "Come on!"   


"Look, if Chang ever sees-- Think of the rules!"   


"Old men's rules," said Mallison dismissively. "You know how they think."   


"Yeah, yeah, but--"   


"Come on, Adam! Screw the old men!"   


Methos began to snicker. He scooped up the second sword and lunged forward, letting the point carry well wide. And off they went, prancing back and forth, shouting fake kaias and making Kung Fu howls. Mallison wasn't too bad, for a mortal with no experience. His style was pure kendo, but any New Yorker would of course learn Japanese swordfighting over European. And some of his moves looked like hwarangdo. So his instructor was probably a retired Army man. MacLeod had once remarked that the U. S. Special Forces based their martial-arts training on hwarangdo moves.   


The second-rate swords clanged like pots being chivareed. The two men swiped sweat off their foreheads, yelped, posed like Errol Flynn. Methos took great delight in playing the fool, in a way he never could in a real fight. He made wildly inaccurate swipes and swings, almost fell over a dozen times, and soon enough he was laughing so hard that he couldn't have landed a serious blow anyway - even if he had needed to.   


"Geez, but this altitude is hell on the lungs!" Puffing, Mallison got his sword in a passable yin position, shuffled to the left and made a downswing stroke - _gyakufu_ , was it? Yes: Cross Wind, from the second set of basic katas, Shinkage school.   


Methos put himself obligingly through the moves of the Cross Wind kata, playing the part of the opponent who gets to die at the end of the exercise. He staggered back, pretending like mad, screaming: "You've cut my arm off! You've cut my arm off!" Then he made a pratfall onto the ground, and lay rattling his heels in a death-tattoo. Finally he sat up, face straight, and saluted.   


Mallison collapsed beside him, one hand pressed to his heaving ribs. They sat together, heaving deep breaths, on the flagstones at one corner of the courtyard.   


"I am so out of shape here . . . it hurts to laugh."   


"Uncle," said Methos faintly.   


"Ah, quit your whining." He gave Methos a smack on the chest. "Down and out. What do you do with your time, anyway, when your immortal hasn't been seen for a hundred years?"   


Methos answered absently. Once or twice, while they fought, he had felt the presence of an immortal: probably Sang Yum, observing their play from some hidden place. Watching him. That didn't matter, this being holy ground, and it was fun to show off for her. Or perhaps, given the way she had looked at him before, she was watching Mallison. He said, "Well, there are lots of things to do. Historical research, mainly. Trying to find Methos. Think of it as looking for a needle in a haystack, only the haystack's the size of the whole world and the needle may not even be in it anymore. Checking out pseudo-Methos sightings--"   


"What the hell is a pseudo-Methos?"   


"Not what, who. He's an immortal - birth name, Vincent Jacobson - who goes around pretending to be Methos. A Methos impersonator. Right now he's in Seattle, and of course he has his own Watcher, but whenever he sticks his nose out I get called to double-check the sighting."   


"That sounds dumb."   


"Tell me about it." Methos elbowed his companion. "Like playing with sharp pointy weapons?"   


"Don't give me grief! I beat you fair and square." He confided, "You know, some of the other Watchers say, if you're ever cornered by an immortal and you can show you know a bit of martial arts - you know? prove yourself? - then he'll let you go." In a whisper: "And some of them say . . . if you can stand up to one of them - with a sword, you know, impress one of them - they'll make you their student and . . . and . . . they make you like them . . . immortal."   


Methos sat up and stared; but Mallison's expression was quite serious. "That is such a crock of--"   


"Hey, no one knows how young immortals are born, do they? It could be true."   


"They know that young immortals are orphans, you yob! Fit that into your theory!"   


"Okay, okay, so it's just a rumor. But nobody knows." Mallison shrugged. "Hey. I did you a favor, by the way. While Chang was giving you briefings on how to handle a live immortal, I started going through the Naro chronicles. I've done three volumes already. And I think I've got the ones from the right time period, but I haven't found any photographs yet."   


This was hardly surprising, since the Kailas photograph was now in Methos' coat. Methos had stolen it earlier in the day, without looking at it; he didn't know if he wanted to actually look at the thing. Now, remembering, he patted his pocket and remarked, "That's nice of you."   


"Gonna find that photo for you if I die trying." His face was filled with transparent, thoughtless good will. "Since you're going to have your hands full, talking with Sang Yum."   


"You really like her, don't you?"   


"You'd better believe it. Why, she's beautiful . . ." He sighed. The sword drooped in his hands. "You've got to tell me every word she says."   


And there she was, like magic: Sang Yum herself, walking across the courtyard with her retinue of lamas trailing after. Mallison sat up straight, sucked in his stomach and thrust out his chest; Methos slouched back on his elbows, smiling inwardly.   


She beckoned to them with a crooked finger, imperious. "Master - Pierson, is it?" Her English was old-fashioned, with an accent pretty as Queen Victoria's. "I would like to speak with you. Let us walk together?"   


She ignored Mallison, and Mallison (being only a humble student from Shigatze) effaced himself meekly - sneaking in among the lamas, tucking the battered swords under his coat. With his eyes devouring her, every inch of her.   


The two immortals walked along in silence at first. Finally Sang Yum said in Manchu, "It has been too long. We can converse in private now, Allan - or do you prefer Adam?"   


"I'm Adam now. That identity died when my wife did. Decades ago." He glanced down at her. "But your husband is somewhere in Tsawa, I'm afraid."   


"He is no longer my husband." Her face was calm. "And he will be coming here, soon. I'm told there has been more change in this past hundred years than in the previous thousand - but some things never change. Love never changes."   


"I always used to say you knew more about love than any other immortal alive."   


"So now you've come to me." And though her face remained serene, her voice had lit up with laughter. "Are you in love, Adam?"   


"I would really rather have been in lust," Methos sighed.   


The lamas, not understanding a word, smiled and nodded at everything they said. Mallison appeared bemused. Following Sang Yum, the whole party walked through the dairy entrance; on the other side of the door was a large earthen-floored room like a barn, full of sheep. Baaing sheep. They were currently tied up in a long double line, secured head to head along a rope, and two teenage lamas were squatting down to milk them.   


"It's a long time since I drank sheep's milk," Methos remarked, looking at the fidgeting ewes (whose wool was matted with dung and twigs) and at the young lamas happily milking away with unwashed hands. The stench of livestock was pungent, sharp. "I saw a pair of _dopkas_ outside. Were they asked in to slaughter a sheep or two?"   


"Yes. There will be a feast tonight." Buddha had forbidden his followers to kill, but human nature being what it was, even otherwise devout priests sometimes found their way around the rule. If a beast died of old age or an accident, it could be eaten without guilt; peasants hunted on the sly, and even lamas craved meat. As for the _dopkas_ , it was universally understood that nomads, who did not farm, must eat flesh to survive. Hence they could kill without sinning . . . and also be hired to work as slaughterers. And the lamas might eat the meat that _dopkas_ butchered - provided they did not witness the act of killing. Sang Yum's face dimpled. "The lamas wanted to call on you, my friend. You're a layman and a foreigner - why shouldn't you kill sheep for them? But I persuaded them that a professor from Paris wouldn't kill his own meal."   


"Well, thank God for that. But they didn't look as if they were thinking about food."   


"I think my lamas took them to the main building for tea. They'll stay until they can get some of the mutton, of course."   


They walked on. Here were the lamasery kitchens, complete with huge churns and tables smeared with barley flour and grease. Three ewes, skinned, hung on hooks to drain. One of the young lamas trotted past with two buckets of milk, which he dumped in a vat in the corner.   


In a cleared area of the floor stood three seven-foot-tall armatures, built up out of wire and bits of wood. Great slabs of pale butter lay next to them, gleaming. Hunks and handfuls of butter had been scooped out of these slabs, and partially built onto the armatures: here they filled out a hand raised in blessing, and there a saint's face was almost completely molded. When the butter statues were finished, they would be decorated and carried in procession.   


"Yak butter," Methos remarked. Sang Yum had gone to the hearth, where tea boiled perpetually in a huge kettle. She poured it out: dark, strong tea swirling with bits of tea-brick. There was one bowl for her, and one for Methos, and she strolled across to the incomplete statues and dug out two dabs of butter to plop in. She handed him a bowl. Methos said, "Where's the _tsampa_?"   


_Tsampa_ meal, added to the brew by handfuls and stirred with the fingers, made the tea a pleasant sort of porridge. Methos, knowing that Mallison was watching, let himself appear to be following Sang Yum's lead. He followed her to a sack of sugar, and helped himself.   


They sat down on a mounting block just outside the dairy doors, to enjoy their tea. The lamas, used to sitting in assembly in this very courtyard for prayer sessions, knelt piously on the flagstones and chatted amongst themselves. One or two produced small portable prayer-wheels, and set them spinning. Mallison edged close to Sang Yum's knees, his face upturned, and she sipped her tea while gazing gently down upon him.   


"Yak butter," she said in Manchu, and he blinked happily up at her, not understanding a single word. "I missed the taste, the smell of it. The butter in the tea and the butter in every lamp and the yak-butter images carried in parades honoring the Great Incarnation on his festival days in Lhasa. Do you know, as the abbot of a lamasery I am entitled to be committed to the eternal by boiling in a cauldron of butter? If I should die. I have instructed the monks to deny my corpse this honor, if they find me headless one morning. I asked them to treat me as any good Tibetan, and give me to the vultures."   


Methos scooped a little _tsampa_ porridge out of his bowl, and ate it. "Pretty morbid, Sang Yum. You're barely a day out of your cell, and already thinking of death? Are you that afraid of our Bon friend?"   


"Anything might happen." She finished her tea, and began to wipe out her bowl with a dainty fingertip. "Tell me about your love."   


Methos finished his tea. He looked into the bowl, and decided with regret against licking it clean - as Sang Yum was doing with hers even now. While Mallison beamed as if he was watching an angel at prayer. Methos set his bowl on the ground, and one of the lamas whisked it away.   


"There's a group of mortals that knows about us," he said.   


Sang Yum stopped licking her bowl.   


"What?"   


"I'm not going to tell you who they are. They know about immortals, Sang Yum. Part of what they know is the truth, and part is an absurd muddle of myths and hearsay - but they know."   


She sat with the wooden bowl gripped between her hands, staring with wide black eyes.   


"Mortals who know about us . . . Adam! Do they know how we die?"   


"Oh, yes."   


"And you love them? These are the ones you love?"   


"Oh, yes," said Methos.   


"But they know about us. Did you tell them? - no, you didn't, did you? Do they know about you? What will they do, if they find out what you are?"   


He slouched forward, making a face. "Three guesses . . ."   


Sang Yum was on her feet. She folded her little hands into the sleeves of her yellow robe, and stood looking gravely down; the high crest on her felt hat gave her the look of a judge in ancient times. "What sort of men are these, that know our secrets?"   


"Like any men. Some good, some greedy, some ignorant. Some have taken the secrets they know, and used them to kill immortals. Some banded together, to hunt us. Some tried to wipe us off the face of the earth."   


"The Gathering," she breathed. "Is that how it will finally come? Oh, I should never have hidden away so long-- And my teacher?" She meant Darius. "Why haven't you asked him about these things, what does he think?"   


"He's dead. Some of them killed him. On holy ground, Sang Yum."   


Her voice rose in an incredulous wail: "Darius is dead?"   


The lamas looked upon her and began loudly, all together, to pray. Sang Yum had turned away in grief. Mallison whispered urgently to Methos, "What the hell did you say!?!" and Methos hissed back at him: "I told her the Dalai Lama was in exile!"   


Sang Yum lowered her hands from her face. Her voice was again calm. "It was his fate to die. All of us do, in the end. Oh, but I'll miss him so!"   


"Yes, Sang Yum. He's at peace now, and never craved vengeance. But mortals and immortals have died." Methos stood up. "And you understand what I feel. I love these mortals, I've lived among them, found shelter in their midst. But I am immortal. Who do I side with? Should I help them, or my own kind?"   


"You've always loved mortals."   


"Yes."   


"When I knew you before, it seemed to me that you looked upon all men and women - even your fellow immortals - with infinite love. As if they were children to you. But you were never torn between mortals and immortals before . . . Even all your wives were mortal."   


"Yes--?"   


"Who else do you love now, that you feel so torn?"   


Methos shrugged.   


"Do what your heart tells you," she said. "Love where you can help. My _koan_ is that love's sign is generosity; anything else is mere greed, the mark of lust." She bowed, putting her hands together. "I cannot help you. I can only give you solitude, so you can think. Until later, Adam."   


She kissed him on the cheek, folded her hands back into her sleeves, and led her monks across the courtyard. Mallison hung behind, looking after. Then, surprisingly, he put an arm around Methos' shoulders, giving him a rough hug. Saying nothing, he trotted off after Sang Yum. Which only went to prove, one supposed, that someday every yob would have his yum.   


Methos was left alone. He sat down again on the block, bowed his head into his hands. After a little while he fished a piece of paper out of his long coat, unfolded it and smoothed it out. It was a letter of resignation, unsigned. He read it, sighed, read it again . . . wishing that Sang Yum could make up his mind for him.   


Yes, he thought - you had to love them, you had to love mortals, because they were ridiculous and helpless and young, so very young. As endearing as kittens. Cute as baby animals. Their lifespans were so short, they had no hope of ever growing out of infancy. Or so it seemed. And here he was, alone in a world filled to overflowing with eager children.   


Even MacLeod - and yes, it been the right thing to do: to leave Mac alone, maybe for as long as a year or two, so that Mac could get over his well-intentioned pique with the Watchers. Poor Mac always saw the world in terms of black and white, us and them. Immortals and mortals. As if there was any real difference between the two.   


Oh, yes. There was no way one could escape loving Mac.   


He read over his resignation one more time. Then, smiling, he ripped it apart and watched it flutter across the courtyard. And it was then that the shouting started.   


Methos jumped up. From the lamasery buildings, from the main temple itself, the voices shouted. They were the voices of lamas, shrieking in panic. They were rushing out of doors, crying in Tibetan: "Fire! Fire!" Smoke poured out under the eaves of the main temple. It was thick, black, smelly smoke, and Methos took one sniff and recognized it. It was the smell of an ancient hazard indigenous to Western Asia, of overturned lamps and burning grease . . . of burning yak butter.   


The lamas milled around the courtyard, talking and pointing. Butter-lamp fires in these old log-framed structures were hazardous, but seldom cost lives; the monks would put it out. Anyway, this fire seemed nowhere near the Watcher quarters. Methos began to relax, and then he heard shouts in a language foreign to these walls. He saw Chinese men running between the buildings, heard guns stuttering, heard screams. What the--? These were soldiers. They were hurrying into the main temple, slinging their guns as they did so, gesturing the confused monks out of the way. As busy as firemen responding to a four-bell alarm. Methos swung around, and someone said, in Chinese, "There. That one. Take him!" and two Chinese soldiers laid hold of his arms.   


He was Adam Pierson, humble Watcher, and didn't know how to defend himself. Methos put shock and indignation on his face, and obeyed his first rule in times of trouble: go limp, and see what happens. He didn't become alarmed until he felt the presence of another immortal.   


They were hustling him off holy ground, out of the lamasery. Even then, he found himself unwilling to resist. They were only mortals; they didn't know what they did. And he couldn't bear to hurt them, because he knew how easily they could be killed.   


Because he was paralyzed with helpless affection for everything around him.   


Just without the walls, they flung him forward onto the ground. Methos broke his fall with his hands, hearing them burst out laughing. There were six of them, armed with machine guns. And there was the seventh: a Chinese woman in the drab clothes of an army bureaucrat, her hair drawn severely back and her face so prim that the lines across her brow seemed imprinted by paperclips. It was Comrade Immortal Maiden.   


She came and squatted beside Methos, putting a hand upon his back when he would have risen. In a low voice, in sing-song English, she began to speak. "I'm afraid you can't go back there, Master. Regrettably, once news of Sang Yum's return reached the ears of the peasants of Tsawa, they rose in righteous indignation against this symbol of lamaist oppression. Brooking no restraint, they will certainly march against this lamasery and try to sack it, putting it to the torch - and to preserve the peace, the army will be forced to intervene. Ah, see the smoke now? Set, I think we shall find, by humble _dopkas_ revolting against their former masters."   


"Paid by you?" said Methos.   


"That could never be proven. But once the army occupies the lamasery, we can begin to investigate the infringements of human rights reported to us. We hear that the lamas hold prisoners in cells in the mountain, walled up without light or medical help. We hear that these poor brainwashed folk go willingly into their holes, and stay buried until they die. We must find these victims, and set them free."   


She frowned. "And once the immortals are taken off holy ground - weakened, disoriented, perhaps restrained so they may be transported down the mountain to receive medical care . . . why, then, I think that my partner Naro-Bonchung will be waiting to behead them. I hear there are dozens of them for him." And she stroked his back. "But don't fear, I've arranged everything, I would never let you go to that fate. Dearest Methos. Because I still love you."   


She touched his face, tenderly. Her own face became serene, filled with peace; and the years fell away from her. Methos sat up, surrounded by her soldiers, and looked at her in disbelief.   


"Peach?" he said.   


TO BE CONTINUED . . .


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All run hither and yon! And then, a flashback.

Imagine the usual disclaimers. With love for foreign languages and romantic backgrounds, not to mention adventure with elephants.   


Warning: I eat nonfiction, spit out fiction. And fantasy violence!   
  
  


LOST HORIZON 

  


Act Three   
  


_"Of all the forms of illusion, woman is the most important."_

Mahayana Buddhist text   
  


Sangnachos zong slept under the moon, cradled in the heart of the Himalayas. Beneath the pass upon which it lay, an immense slope rose from the forested abyss: pine and oak, juniper and rhododendron dense as any jungle, succeeded by groves of hardy birch . . . then, above the tree-line, one emerged into the altitude at which the lamasery itself stood, and this was the zone of flowers. For rain fell plentifully in that part of the Himalayas, and the southern slopes of the mountains were carpeted with fantastic flowers. Primulas and potentillas, anemones and eidelweiss, saxifrage and gentians covered the alpine meadows, blooming amidst the melting snows of spring - there were no flowers like the flowers of Tibet!   


Above these brilliant alpine meadows lay a country of eternal snow, the serene peaks of the mountains of God. There, so stories told, yellow bears walked across the snowfields, leaving prints like men, and the thunder of the mountain storms was the roaring of the great white lions of Heaven. All the Himalayas had been a lake, until a helpful Bodhisattva crooked one finger and lifted the mountains up. Here was the heart of lamastic Buddhism, the great religion which had ruled half Asia; here were the last sanctuaries of the Bon-po; here were the temples of a hundred Incarnations, among whom the Dalai Lama was greatest of the great. What was China? A mere twelve hundred years ago, the hordes of Tibet had conquered western China, seized Turkestan and Mongolia, sacked China's capital of Chang-an; their outposts had reached from the Jade Gate to Khotan. The Tibetans had never forgotten. The Chinese had never forgotten either.   


The Chinese soldiers walked curiously through Sangnachos zong. For most of them, it was the only intact lamasery they would ever see. They had been raised in an isolated culture, they were ignorant of the ways of other lands; the strong faith of Tibet was a mystery to them. They marveled at the brightly painted prayer hall, with its wooden pillars covered with lions and flowers, and its walls decorated with the eight happy signs of Tibetan Buddhism. The pile of rusty swords around the abbot's throne made them grimace in bewilderment. Some took souvenirs. Then they found the tantric paintings with their graphic sexual symbolism, and studied them with lips pursed and eyes slitted in disgust. And it wasn't long before the first solder spat on the walls. It wasn't long before they found the stores of whitewash meant for the lamasery's exterior, and began to apply it to the interior.   


Naro-Bonchung prowled through the lamasery. Buddhism meant nothing to him. He was not old for an immortal, but his teachers had been Bon shamans and they had taught him all the ancient tales. He knew that once, his religion had been the one religion of all Europe and Asia, for as far away as England and Normandy men had raised the stone circles, the megaliths and monoliths of the shamans. Such monuments still decorated lonely places in the mountains, and menhirs lined the old pilgrim's road to Mount Kailas. He himself had taken the name of a mighty Bon sorceror, but then he had lived many lives, using many names: Kesar Khan, Ja Lama. Here in Sangnachos zong were dozens of immortals, a feast laid out before him. He would take their heads, chop off the tops of their skulls, rivet skull upon skull to make magic drums - in the old way. In the old way, he would drink souls.   


The girl once named Peach knew the satisfaction of a dream. Long ago, loving her Master, owing him everything, she had made one hideous mistake . . . and lost him even as she gained immortality. Since then her tale had been one of endless plotting to survive, for she was only a defenseless girl - in China, where a girl was nothing. She had fought every step of the way, against mortals as well as immortals. She had learned to disguise her extreme youth, to appear decades older at will. And now she had found her Master Methos, and would live happily ever after.   


Chang was busy. Watcher protocol was clearly laid out, polished by a thousand close calls. His small group had held countless drills on just what to do. Every computer record had been backed up and wiped, all disks cleansed and dummy disks - lovingly faked by his bored junior Watchers, every line of falsified research the product of snickers and guffaws - put out to be scrutinized. They had reams of actual data from Russian and American psychic studies. They had papers and permits enough to kill any investigator through sheer boredom.   


The chronicles had not been moved. They were irreplaceable originals, too many to be hidden, and could not be surrendered to outsiders. Fuses had already been set. If the chronicles were threatened, the building would be fired - blown up, to save them from falling into the wrong hands. As a last resort. And as a last resort, Chang and his fellow Watchers were sworn to die rather than be questioned.   


It would all seem like an accident, of course. But Chang was a realist, and didn't believe in dying for the cause. So he had made other plans.   


And just because there were two rogue immortals and a squad of peasant soldiers loose in the lamasery was no reason to give up hope.   


Presently, Chang was standing before a window in the Watcher quarters, looking through a pair of binoculars. Next to him squatted two Chinese soldiers, both crouching with their heads below the level of the windowsill. They were the Watchers assigned to Immortal Maiden and Naro-Bonchung. While he gazed over the moonlit grounds of the lamasery, they talked quietly to him - bringing him up to date on the movements of their immortals. When they were finished he said only: "Sang Yum. Pierson. Mallison. We still don't know where they are?"   


"No, sir."   


He had Immortal Maiden in his scope. There she was, in the courtyard just outside the walk up to the anchorites' cells, jotting notes on a clipboard. She had several soldiers with her; they held powerful flashlights, which they were beaming here and there - examining the doors of the cells? None of the cells had yet been opened, but it was only a matter of time, Chang supposed. For why else would immortals attack Sangnachos zong, except for the quickenings of other immortals?   


. . . And where was Sang Yum?   


"Go back to your duties," he told the other Watchers; all the while that he spoke, he was thinking hard. "I'll watch Immortal Maiden. Kin Cho', get assigned to guard duty in the building where the other Watchers are. You know what to do. If we're discovered, we'll fire the chronicles and escape. Huang King, go back to Naro-Bonchung. He's going to start taking heads soon. It's your duty to record exactly how many and whose he takes . . . If either of you sees Mallison or Pierson, send them straight to me. Go!"   


Pierson and Mallison were probably with Sang Yum right now. Any Watcher worth his oath knew what to do at a time like this: attach himself to the nearest immortal, and stick like glue. Immortals would be fighting soon, heads rolling, and names would be struck from the lists of the living. Whatever happened, the Watchers would be there to stand witness.   


Chang frowned into his binoculars. Behind him, his staff bustled around the room, double-checking every detail of their disguises. They muttered to one another as they did. He could feel their fear through his skin, like a shiver on the back of his neck. The chronicles were their weak spot. Too many to be moved, too valuable to be discarded, too incriminating to be left behind . . .   


Below, Immortal Maiden paced. Her soldiers stood at a respectful distance, her clipboard was laid down atop a wall of _mani_ -stones. The bright moon shone down upon them all. Beside the clipboard rested a long bundle wrapped up in a coat, at which she darted swift glances from time to time.   


Above, Chang observed with curiosity. Often before, he had taken turns shadowing her - as they all had - for she was among the most dangerous immortals in Tibet, and all the local Watchers worked together to keep her in sight round the clock. He knew her well. She had always intrigued him, for her air of authority would sometimes fade like a mirage and leave her looking young and forlorn, like a lost child scrubbing away a disguise.   


Now she stood stock still, looking at her bundle. Then, swiftly, she moved to stoop over and pull away one side of the coat. She remained that way, bent down to look at whatever was inside, for several long moments during which Chang stepped first to the left then to the right, trying to find an angle at which he could see past her; but he couldn't. Immortal Maiden blocked his view.   


What was in there?   


But when at last she straightened, she was carrying the bundle - holding it cradled in her arms like a beloved child. Her soldiers came hurrying, snapping off their flashlights and falling in behind her as she walked away from the mountain. Evidently the anchorites' cells would wait-- Then he stiffened. She was coming toward the building which housed the Watchers.   


He lowered the binoculars. "Everyone!" he said, and behind him the mutter of voices quieted. "Get ready. Immortal Maiden is coming."   


One of the other Watchers said, quaveringly, "We could still box the chronicles and lay the boards of the computer table over--"   


Chang turned his head. His binoculars were now hidden in his coat and his hands folded at the small of his back. But his eyes softened as he looked at the woman who had spoken, at her worried face and the huge cat she clutched in her arms. "Juliette, there's no time now. Just be calm. Calm, but with a little worry. Remember that we are researchers, and all our prized data is in jeopardy--"   


"That's true enough!" she exclaimed, and everyone laughed breathlessly.   


"Just be yourselves, then."   


They all looked at the bookshelves and away. And again, Chang wished that he hadn't lost Pierson and Mallison.   


They heard the Chinese soldiers coming down the corridor. At once, two of them snatched up sheafs of paper and stood looking busy; two more sat down plump before their computer monitors. The woman with the cat cradled her pet, as if afraid it would be stir-fried by the invaders. Chang took up his station by the door. The door opened.   


Immortal Maiden stepped into the room.   


Chang's heart raced. He could never look upon a living immortal without emotion. They appeared so ordinary, and no instrument known to science could detect any difference - and many experiments had been tried! - and yet still they existed: magical creatures, unable to age. Who healed of every wound. Who broke every natural law. Though he had helped observe Immortal Maiden for many years, he could not approach her without feeling the hair rising on the back of his neck.   


And here she was - the fox maiden! - her innate magic hidden behind that bureaucratic veneer. She was old; yet her face and form, he knew, were those of a teenage girl; and she hid her youth and beauty as if they were curses. She carried the clipboard which was never far from her reach, and also her mysterious wrapped bundle. And her face was full of arrogance and disdain.   


She looked around. Her soldiers were at her back. "Ah!" said Immortal Maiden. "You."   


Chang summoned a look of impatience. "Certainly. I see you remember meeting me before. What is your business here, if I may ask?"   


"Investigating reports of human rights abuses." She made an impatient gesture, walking right past him and into the room: looking, looking, looking at everything. "So this is your scientific station. Are all your colleagues present?"   


"You know they are not. Where is Dr Pierson, our linguist from Paris University? Where is my Tibetan field researcher?"   


"I have no interest in these persons. Such a lot of computers! And so very up-to-date. What are those books?"   


"Findings of the Rhine Institute, 1950 to 1962 inclusive," said Chang blandly. The chronicles at which she pointed in accusation were now jacketed in dummy bindings, row after row. "And those? The collected works of Alexandra David-Neel. Alma-Ata University, total abstracts on parapsychic experimentation. We have the only complete run of The Skeptical Enquirer east of--"   


"Garbage." She looked with apparent affront at the cat. The cat hissed and spat and was hastily hidden by its owner. "I shall examine all the visas, passports and paperwork for these foreigners. I must make decisions, this is very difficult, I must see if I can permit these non-Chinese to remain in Tibet--"   


"That is not your decision. Our permits are in order."   


"But conditions change."   


"The matter is out of both our hands," said Chang with a complete lack of expression. He folded his arms.   


For several long moments, Immortal Maiden looked him in the eye. Then she coughed. "I will take your advice into consideration," she said, shrugging - and he knew that he had won.   


"Of course. No doubt you will make the best decision in the end. May I give you a tour of our facilities?"   


"Perhaps later. There is so much to do." She turned away, walked to the door and then, apparently thinking of something, turned suddenly and spoke. " _Mei you fa tze!_ Remember that your colleagues are foreigners: cow's demons and snake spirits, as we used to say. And if poisonous weeds are not removed, scented flowers cannot grow."   


" _Hua ping!_ " said Chang, letting the words hiss out. Then the door slammed behind her, and she was gone.   


His Watchers were shaking in their boots. Chang let himself relax, walking back to the window and looking out. There she was, just stepping through the door below. She had apparently dismissed her soldiers; they were not with her. She looked around, carefully. Then she laid her clipboard on the stone block by the door, and unwrapped the other object she held. Juliette, at Chang's shoulder, whispered, "What's she doing? And what did you say to her?"   


Chang held up one hand. He pulled out his binoculars again.   


"It's a sword she's carrying," he said in surprise, and the other Watchers all came hurrying nearer. "Someone take this down - she's got another immortal's weapon, surely, an European straightsword, perhaps forty inches in length from point to pommel. It's - mm, double-edged, I can't judge the quality of the steel from here, engraved hilt and simple cross-bar of yellow metal, either brass or gold-plate. A diamond-shaped blade without channels. It looks fairly heavy. Not a sword I recognize. I'll look at our weaponry records later and find out if it's a known blade . . ."   


He trailed off. "What's happening?" said Juliette after a few moments.   


Chang lowered his binoculars. His face was flushed. "If it's a known sword, I'll find it in the records," he repeated. ". . . What did I call her? I called her a flower vase. It was not a compliment."   


Below, Immortal Maiden had stood gazing at the sword she held in her arms. Again she had glanced around, as if searching for witnesses. Then, dropping to her knees, she had pressed her face against the blade, rocking and murmuring over the inanimate steel - kissing the sword passionately, again and again.   
  


#

 

Elsewhere, Sang Yum sat in front of a campfire, drinking butter tea.   


Several of her lamas sat nearby, meditating. The mountain loomed over them; they were perhaps three miles away from Sangnachos zong, lower down the pass. Here the two _dopka_ nomads who had come to the lamasery had pitched their black felt tent which looked rather like an enormous spider, tied down with long ropes which were not pegged, but lashed to boulders and logs - for often these nomads in their wandering pitched tents above the permafrost, or on stony ground too hard to drive tent-pegs into. Four of the local ponies grazed nearby, like shaggy round bundles on legs, and there was a mastiff almost as big as the ponies - a huge creature with a red-and-yellow collar.   


When they had first found the encampment, it had been because of the dog's frantic barking; and the woman of the tent, frightened of strangers, had threatened to set the beast on them. Undoubtedly the two _dopkas_ were brothers, and she was married to both of them - such was the custom in the back country - and aside from a few yaks lowing off in the distance, these poor possessions would be all her earthly treasure. She was short, swarthy, clad in a huge sheepskin coat with brass buttons. There were coins hanging from her tall hat, and the front of the hat-band was decorated with - surely - a silver saucer from an English tea service, sewn carefully into place and polished until it shone.   


Sang Yum had looked carefully at her clothing and her hat, and addressed her in the accents of Kham province. And the woman had tied up her dog and hastened to offer _tsampa_ , cheese and tea.   


Now they all sat together like friends, eating barley bread with yak cheese crumbled over top. A baby boy in trousers and apron crawled underfoot, while the piercing odor of stale yak cheese hung around them like a miasma. Sang Yum had blessed the tent and the baby, uttered magic words over every pony, and finished with a Sanscrit mantra or two: " _Subham astu sarvajagatum!"_ and _"Sarva mangalam!_ " pronounced resoundingly while the tent-wife sighed with pleasure. It was as if the Dalai Lama himself had come to honor her threshold.   


Nothing had changed, not in a hundred years.   


Sipping tea, Sang Yum looked at the scene around her, complete to her retinue of devout monks, and saw nothing she could not have seen a hundred years ago. It was as if she had barely been away an hour. Even now, the Khampa woman was touching her sleeve and imploring, " _Jetsumna!_ Venerable lady. We all know of your long journey to the underworld, your miraculous return. Even now, there are celebrations with fireworks in Tsawa town, and hundred of pilgrims are preparing to come up the mountain. Venerable lady, before they arrive, make a blessing over my poor yaks?" While the boy scientist from Shigatze wrinkled up his nose, as if trying not to laugh.   


Nothing had changed - except in the person of this boy. He had been to America, he admitted as much (with that parody of a Shigatze accent, how could he deny it?) and seen the outside world . . . and the tales he told were unbelievable. Her dear old friend de Bergerac could not have invented better. Men on the moon! Missions to Mars! Instantaneous communication between one side of the world and the other?   


And yet with her own eyes, she had seen the mysterious machinery in the lamasery. Her lamas had confirmed his wild tales. Besides, Sang Yum was old and had known a thousand - no, ten thousand boys like this. And this much she knew, out of date as she was: a young man who looked at one with those great dark eyes had other things on his mind besides lying.   


He sat at her feet now, and she stroked his hair. "Something worries you. What is it?"   


"My friend Adam," the boy admitted. "Professor Pierson! Back at the lamasery - he's got to be in danger--"   


"All will be well with him. Lord Buddha will preserve us. And I think," said Sang Yum, "your friend is the kind of man who can take care of himself?"   


Yes, she thought - Allan. _Ningma-ningma_ , most ancient of ancients. She did not know his real name or identity, but she knew he must be the oldest immortal she had ever seen: that much was obvious. Even Darius had not possessed an aura that powerful. She guessed he would be more than a match for Naro-Bonchung - if it ever came to a fight. But it would not come to a fight. For this, too, was the way of the very old immortals; they grew weary of the Game, and turned away to the path of enlightenment.   


"Tell me more about telecommunications--" she began, and then broke off.   


Three men appeared in the circle of firelight. Two were the _dopka_ s, all bundled in their furs. The third was Naro-Bonchung.   


Sang Yum sat frozen. The Bon immortal, framed by his unkempt Khampa henchmen, strode boldly forward to the fire. He wore his sword openly, and the magic dagger of a sorceror hung at his belt - along with a flute fashioned from a human thighbone.   


Grinning, he crouched down before her; the boy from Shigatze scuttled backward, the lamas clutched their rosaries. He took her chin between finger and thumb, and tilted her face toward the light.   


He leered. "Still beautiful, my buried treasure. Delectable - for a corpse interred a hundred years! Time has dealt kindly with you, dear wife."   


"I'm not your wife," she said, never moving. "And you're not the man to lie alone mourning for a vanished bride. Surely in a century, you've found another woman to share your bed?"   


"No, I never was a man to lie alone," Naro-Bonchung admitted. "And perhaps there have been a few others. No matter. You and I--"   


Sang Yum leaned back, her cold gaze fixed on his hand. "I am a lama now, and celibate. Go back to whoever is your wife."   


"My Shanghai soldier girl? She's a cold stick next to you. Too young to know about pleasing a man! No, I think you'll come with me, woman." He grasped her arms, pulling her to her feet. Behind them, the _dopka_ woman cried out, and the lamas protested. "Come quietly, Sang Yum, and you'll come whole. Otherwise I must be content with just your head."   


"I think not." She stood quietly in his hold, her face upturned. Then he became aware of the dead silence at his back. He glanced in that direction.   


The lamas had risen and stood shoulder to shoulder. Every one of them was armed with a makeshift club. The nomad woman had untied her bristling mastiff and was advancing, with the beast's rope gripped in her fists and the dog itself muscling forward, dragging her along and drooling as it came. The boy from the lamasery had just taken two swords from under his coat and was passing them to the woman's husbands, who were looking at Naro-Bonchung in an unfriendly fashion.   


"You're outnumbered, Lobon," said Sang Yum. "Don't threaten me again."   


He shook his head, winked at her. "Wife, the game's not over yet. I think you remember your loved ones up at the lamasery? Your students, your friends? I think you won't like it when the soldiers break into their cells, and take them off holy ground and give them to me. I think you'll come along now, and make no more trouble."   


"I think I won't," Sang Yum answered.   


"But your fellow immortals?" He grinned widely, exposing tobacco-stained teeth. "And the lamasery itself . . . such a shame to see my Chinese soldiers defacing those ancient frescos. Soon, nothing will be left but bare walls, broken bones. You could stop it. You must think of these things, woman!"   


"I am. I don't trust you, Lobon." She lifted her hand. All the hostile mortals around them took one step forward, hefting their weapons. And the dog gave voice to a long bloodthirsty groan.   


Naro-Bonchung shrugged and began to swagger away, abandoning the field. The last thing they heard from him was a sneer: "Don't let your bed get cold, wife - I'll be back!"   


"He always is," murmured Sang Yum, half to herself. She sat down and reached for her tea-bowl. The rest of her little band of cutthroats gathered round, worried and excited.   


"Venerable lady, we must go back to Sangnachos zong," said a lama, frightened into speaking his mind.   


"Yes, we do," she agreed. "May Lord Buddha help us! For once we get there, I have no idea what to do."   
  


#

". . . he'll kill them," Methos was saying, at that very moment. "Peach, he'll kill them all. They're gentle people who have turned away from the sword. What are you doing here, wandering around Tibet, helping that demented lady-killer take innocent heads?"   


Her soldiers had brought him to this refuge: a _tsa-tsa_ , a rude stone hut outside the lamasery grounds. Perhaps two miles from Sangnachos zong, in the opposite direction from Sang Yum and her _dopkas_ ; still the same moon shone down on them all. In ordinary times, such huts as these served as depository for the bones of the dead; anything left after the sky burial ended was brought here. Even now, a few smashed jars in the corners of the hut bore witness to the ancient custom. Methos stood in the doorway of this humble building. Nearby, two Chinese soldiers sat eating cold boiled rice by the light of the moon.   


Peach hovered in front of Methos. "I brought you some mutton," she was saying. "And fresh milk, I remember how much you love to drink milk." Her voice was quavering and uncertain - a girl's tremulous voice. She clasped her hands together, bowed her head. "Not even a word of welcome for me, Master, after all these years?"   


"This is grotesque, Peach!"   


"But I've saved your life," she said reproachfully. "Naro-Bonchung is insatiable. Every immortal he meets, he kills."   


"Then how do you get along with him so well, child?"   


A tiny smile sparkled on her face. "I've waited so long to hear you call me child again . . . You see, you taught me to survive at any cost. And when I said he was insatiable, I did not lie."   


"You're his wife."   


"No longer, that is all over now." She made a cutting-off gesture, a sweep of the hand. "It's you I've always loved."   


He would not look at her.   


"Master Methos," she whispered. "I've waited so long, I've wanted so much . . ."   


He would not speak to her.   


"Tell me if you dislike anything. I have brought a stove for you, a lamp, thermal blankets and a mattress-- If the soldiers displease you, say so and I will have them replaced."   


But he wouldn't look at her!   


"Is this because I killed that mortal woman?" she whispered. "That one mistake, so very very long ago?"   


"She was my wife, child! My beloved Ayesha."   


"But that was decades ago, she'd be in her grave anyway by now--"   


"Yes. As she is. Dead at your hands, Peach."   


"I had no choice. I thought - you see, I thought she was an immortal, I was an ignorant child and she frightened me--" Peach stopped, gulped, started again. "I know you don't approve of killing. I know I did wrong, but it's not murder, you know, to kill another immortal. If I hadn't got them first, they would have killed me--"   


"Yes. I heard about all the heads you took."   


". . . and it isn't how you taught me, Master, but - but - but it's the Game. I had no choice. It wasn't murder! It was self-defense."   


He turned toward her at last; and Peach looked into his bone-white face and was silenced.   


His gaze looked through and beyond her. It was as if she did not exist. The mortal woman long dead was more real to him that she, Peach, had ever been; that wretched mortal woman knew him as Peach had never known him; that mortal woman - damned be her name! - had stolen his heart, and left nothing for her. How could this be? And even now, he was turning away again, unsatisfied.   


"It was a mistake!" she wailed. "A mistake!"   


She saw him take a sudden angry step away from her. But his voice was steady and calm, icy cold. "She's still dead, child. They all are."   


"I love you!"   


"Peach, you don't even know what love is."   


Peach couldn't bear it anymore. Tears of frustration dimmed her vision. She darted forward and pressed herself briefly against his back, throwing her arms around him; then she hurried off, her head hanging.   


Behind her, the Chinese soldiers looked around curiously, and then they shrugged and returned to their rice. Methos lifted his eyes to the moon; all the things she had said, full of self-pity and justification and wounded vanity, ran in a blur through his mind. He shut his eyes, and banished the thought of her . . . and remembered happier times.   


He remembered Ayesha.   
  


#

 

In eighteen-ninety-eight:   


A lute was strummed, a gong struck. A Chinese violin twanged with a rhythmic throb. And Ayesha said, suspiciously: "What are they going to do?"   


They sat among a great crowd of people, in the courtyard of the Nyandi Gompa temple, with Mount Kailas towering over them all. Laymen and lamas, folk of the thousand ethnic groups in which India rejoiced, Tibetans and Nepalese and Bhutans - they were all packed together cheek by jowl, and all of them were chattering cheerfully. They were chewing betel nuts and spitting the juice out, and a Parsee from Sringar was walking among them, selling _chapatis_ from a tray hung round his neck. Against the back of the courtyard sat three complete rows of Buddhist nuns, black and round of face as Africans; they were swathed in bulky woolen skirts and striped blouses. They were waiting, like everyone else, for night to fall.   


"You mustn't miss this." Sang Yum held Ayesha's hand tightly, tugging her back onto her camp stool. "And I promise you, it won't be much longer. Once it becomes dark, the performance can begin."   


"Oh, very well. But must they play those instruments?"   


"Shhh . . ."   


The accompaniment was three solemn Chinese in long blue cotton robes, sitting to one side of the stage; the stage was no stage, being only a blank white sheet stretched on a bamboo frame. Behind the sheet was nothing, Ayesha was convinced, but the wall of a temple building . . . so where was the show? She examined the sheet, shrugged her shoulders, and yawned with delicate boredom. The trio of musicians began to tune their instruments, her husband beside her sat (she was aware) watching her rather than the entertainment. She sat a little straighter, drew her shoulders back so her breasts jutted out; and imagined, without looking, how he would smile.   


Tonight, perhaps they might try illustration number twenty-three.   


"I brought you here," Sang Yum was saying, "to atone, in part, for my great shame."   


Her lovely face was averted, a faint flush burned upon her flower-petal cheek. Ayesha said, "For what great shame?"   


"For my shame at my husband's insults to you. Since he saw you, he has been consumed with a fiery lust--"   


"Yes, he has!" said Ayesha. "A lust all-encompassing."   


"And very flattering too," Methos murmured, for his wife's ear alone.   


Was that a tiny twinkle in the Manchu woman's eyes? "All this is true," she agreed, pretending to wipe away a tear. "As for myself, only I know how I have suffered."   


"And think of my beloved husband," Ayesha sighed. "Unable to eat, unable to sleep. Unable to make his _perikarama_ around the mountain, for fear of leaving me alone. He will die with his sins black on his conscience. All because of Naro-Bonchung!"   


"I know he has sent you lavish gifts - a necklace he once gave to me - fine fruits and wines, and butter-yellow Baltic amber . . ."   


"And fifteen ounces of the best Parisian perfume!" said Ayesha. She hastened to add, "Of course, I smashed the bottle."   


"Just so. I have left him, of course. There is a lamasery in eastern Tibet to which I shall presently retire, where I may meditate upon the illusion of earthly love - and yet we were joyous together for many years. Before I left, though, I wished to express all these things to you."   


"So you invited us to a puppet show?"   


"Ayesha, it's not quite a puppet show," Methos remarked. "Sit quiet, and see for yourself. They're about to start."   


Behind the sheet, a single lamp had been lit.   


The sky above was almost black, burning with gigantic white stars. Around the courtyard, all fires and torches were being extinguished. The audience went on talking, while the musicians struck up a soft tune. And the show began.   


The glow from the one remaining lamp played across the sheet, lighting it from within. It was dim and romantic, a golden illumination. A gentle flapping sounded from nowhere, and now a wavering shadow appeared upon the screen of the sheet . . . the shadow image of a flying bird.   


Its wings rose and fell as it crossed the zone of light. There was the faint whistle of a birdcall as it vanished, and a child somewhere in the courtyard called out in delight. A flock of birds, small with distance, was now crossing the screen, and for a brief moment the sound of birdsong was everywhere. A ruffled mass of clouds was seen, more perfect than reality. The light grew stronger, nearer. The rhythm of the music quickened.   


The outlines of the Himalayas rose upon the screen.   


It was as if they were being flown over the mountains. Massifs and ranges and proud, lonely peaks rose and fell like the waves of the sea; then a majestic range hove into view. And there was a single pyramidal mountain lofty above all others. It was recognizably Mount Kailas.   


Its silhouette rushed forward, filled the screen and hung fixed. Around its summit, a circle of dim figures began to parade: Buddhas in the aspect of enlightenment, each with one hand poised in the gesture of meditation, holding a monastic bowl; each with the other hand poised in the gesture of attestation, holding a scepter crowned at either end. The audience oohed and aahed in wonder, the nuns in the back were praying. A tiny file of pilgrims was now to be seen, ascending the mountaintop. One could hear a faint chanting, as of many voices. Holy music played.   


Writhing dragons and Tibetan sacred lions filled the backdrop and vanished. And the shadow theatre began to depict a legend: the tale of the great Buddhist poet Milarepa, and his battle against the Bon-po sorcerer Naro-Bonchung.   


Here the Buddhist saint sat meditating, while the beasts of the field and the flocks of the air gathered to guard him. A marvelously realistic fox bounded across the screen, bearing a bunch of grapes to lay in the poet's begging-bowl. Disciples appeared and vanished, studying the mystic arts at the feet of the hermit sage. There was a wonderful moment during which the shadow images of young lamas rose up, surrounded by immense, drifting, intricate snowflakes; then around each concentrating student a halo of flames flickered, banishing the winter cold - melting the very snowflakes as they fell!   


Now, the screen filled with the image of Naro-Bonchung, foremost among the teachers of the Black Faith. He wore the robes of a sorcerer, hung about with drums made from human skulls, with mystic knives and shaman's mirrors. Come to fight Milarepa for the holy swastika mountain, he danced in menace brandishing a curling ram-horn, while the disciples fled in fear. This was the challenge that he made: whoever first ascended to the summit of Mount Kailas would be acknowledged master of the mountain.   


The champion of Buddhism, accepting the challenge, sat plunged deep in meditation - never stirring a step. The champion of the Black Faith mounted his magic drum and flew straight up in the air. He ascended with supernatural power. Laughter roared out from behind the sheet, demons pranced and danced. There were the Angry Ones, feasting upon the flesh of men, whose delicacy was fresh brains served hot in human skulls; there were the Frightful Ones, crowned with bones, led by King Death himself. Higher and higher rose Naro-Bonchung. Milarepa remained immobile, with shut eyes, while the laments of his students filled the air and the sorcerer raised his hands in triumph.   


The audience was weeping, crying out in fear. The music reached a crescendo. Ayesha, breathless with wonder and suspense, clutched Methos' hand in both of hers and leaned forward eagerly.   


And in a blaze of light, on the summit of the mountain appeared a shining throne. Upon it, meditating still, sat the holy sage. Blinded by the vision, Naro-Bonchung fell tumbling down - straight to the bottom, plunging into Lake Manosarovar in a gout of hissing steam. The mountain was won for Buddha. And the vertical gash down the south face of Kailas was ploughed by the sorcerer's magic drum - dropped in his alarm at seeing the lama overtake him.   


The last notes of music died, the audience burst into applause. Ayesha sat back on her camp stool with a thump. She turned to Methos: her eyes were alight, her lips parted with astonished pleasure. But her husband was speaking with an Indian messenger, who had just handed him a letter.   


He broke the seal and scanned the note, and then tossed it away. At Sang Yum's inquiring glance, he said, "Your husband still invites me to step outside with him."   


"And still, you will not take up the sword," she murmured. She was clearly curious. "You refuse even to defend your wife's honor?"   


"That's not exactly what I refuse," Methos said. "And as for Ayesha - she is her own best defense."   


Ayesha was no longer interested in the conversation. She couldn't wait any longer; she cast her husband one apologetic glance, and then whisked across the courtyard. The three Chinese musicians were moving through the thinning crowd, bowing as they harvested praise and rupees. And there was the sheet, at close quarters woefully commonplace: stained at one corner, dingy and greyish. She stepped around it, and looked.   


She saw an oil-lamp, a stool, and a Chinese man with a long wispy beard. One man, all alone; he was tiny and wizened and he blinked humbly up at her, sketching a bow. Around his stool was a litter of flat cut-outs, made of varnished ass-hide . . . cartoon figures, transparently thin, but perforated and clipped and cut, and cunningly mounted on poles of bamboo. Some were painted, and the figures of Milarepa and Naro-Bonchung were hinged at every major joint and worked by wires strung to their heads and hands. With these and these alone, the puppeteer had worked his magic.   


Ayesha, silent for once, drew near and touched the silhouette of a floating dragon. It was a mere five inches long; but flown in front of the lamp, it had filled the screen - so convincing, it might almost have breathed real fire. The puppeteer took it gently out of her hands, and slid it into a large flat envelope. Every image had its own envelope, and there was a battered wooden carrying case with dozens of wide, flat drawers, in which they lived between performances.   


Her husband, looking around the sheet, found her sitting cross-legged at the feet of the puppeteer. The old man was laughing, sailing a flapping crane along with a snarling tiger leaping in its wake. And Ayesha rocked and clapped her hands and exclaimed breathlessly at every beat of the bird's wings, every pounce of the tiger.   


Methos knelt behind her, and kissed the top of her head. He breathed into her ear: "You must buy some of your very own."   
  


#

 

The next afternoon, restless, she saddled her Arabian mare and rode out unaccompanied.   


A grey furze covered the floor of the valley, so colorless that it was invisible; it was as if she rode across a wasteland, and yet she passed flock after flock of placidly grazing goats. They were long-haired goats with wicked slotted eyes, of the _pashamina_ breed which flourished only at high altitudes. _Pasham_ wool from these goats went south to Kashmir and from the weavers in Kashmir came the precious cashmere shawls which were exported even to England; so Methos said. Gold-sand ran in the rivers and there were gold mines further upland, he said. Musk and yak-tails and other dull things were brought down in bales from the high plateaus. Methos knew everything.   


The air was thin, filled with a golden haze. Ayesha found herself riding past dolmens and stone circles, much like those she had seen in Normandy and England. There were vast slabs of flat slate lying tumbled in heaps, quite carelessly, and yet when she looked closely at them, each one was incised from top to bottom with Sanscrit characters. They were all _man_ i-stones.   


Pilgrim tents dotted the shores of the lakes. Gazing up, she could count temple after temple.   


"They are Buddhist temples," said a deep, amused voice. She started and looked around, wildly, for the source. "But Shiva also has his shrines there, and there are altars for Naro-Bonchung too . . . Buddhism is an eclectic faith, and Kailas has been holy ground for over two thousand years."   


"Naro-Bonchung." Ayesha reined in Wadduda, casting cold eye upon the tall immortal. There he stood leaning against a standing stone, with one boot planted atop a slate inscribed with prayers. She raised her whip and pointed it fearlessly at him. "What a shame I did not bring my carbine."   


He stepped forward, kicking the _mani_ -stone carelessly as he did. "They call Milarepa the Saint Francis of Buddhism, did you know? When Darius came here, people believed him to be the reincarnation of the great sage. So it amused me to take on the name of Naro-Bonchung."   


"I've heard of Darius. What did you learn from him?"   


"To love," said Naro-Bonchung, and he took hold of her stirrup and stood fingering her boot, stroking it lewdly along the leather uppers. "Did you like my gifts?"   


"What, the cheap perfume? I remember now, I broke the bottle--"   


"Did you?" He brought his fingers to his face and sniffed ostentatiously, and then he licked his thumb and drew it across her instep. "Never mind. You smell sweeter than any perfume. Why don't you like me?"   


"Let go of my boot." Wadduda fretted and stamped, restlessly, and Ayesha stroked her along the silken skin of her neck. She said, "You have disturbed our pilgrimage, and prevented my husband from walking round the mountain, something he came all the way from Ceylon to do. Why should I like you? Besides, I do not couple with he-goats."   


"What!" said Naro-Bonchung, genuinely startled. "I've seen his profile, woman."   


She burst out laughing. "Well said! But he is my husband and I would die if parted from him."   


"Would you?" He petted her ankle. "In Samarkand," he told her stirrup, "I own a house that could be yours. It is the most beautiful city in the world. Every house in it has a garden, even within the walls, and every valley for miles around is an orchard, every hilltop a paradise. In the mountains, men gentle golden eagles and ride out hawking with them. I would buy you tame cheetahs, greyhounds and fine racing camels. And diamonds, and emeralds. In my hareem, you would live like a queen."   


"I already do. And you already have a wife."   


"Forget her. I did, the moment you shot me."   


"Let go of me," hissed Ayesha, and she brandished her whip.   


But his lascivious fingers were stroking along her leg; when she made to strike him away, he snatched her wrist and his fingers hurt her, bruising her. His fingers yanked at her hair, hauled her over - doubled like a sack of grain. His fingers fondled her mouth, and then his hand closed on her chin, and he kissed her long and hard. While the iron grip of his fingers prevented her from biting.   


When he released her, she was panting with anger and disgust. All this while - it was the final insult! - he had not even bothered to take the whip away from her.   


"You know you're no match for me, woman. You want me, I can see it in your eyes. Tonight I come to your tent. Send your shivering cur of a husband away, and I'll creep in and keep you warm."   


She slashed him across the fingers with her whip, and spurred Wadduda away.   
  


#

 

And later yet, Methos knelt on the ground before Ayesha's tent, playing with her shadow-puppets.   


She had been unable to resist buying a whole set, complete with a five-clawed imperial dragon, ten inches long and fully articulated. There was an Emperor and a concubine, and a Mongol villain in full armor. Methos had a little knife, with which he was thoughtfully paring away at the seductive figure of the concubine. One of the Indian servants from Sang Yum's party was seated opposite him, drinking tea and chatting; it was the man with the Watcher tattoo.   


From the direction of Lake Manasarovar came a tumult of excited voices, laughter and exclamations. Ayesha's mahout and servants had led the elephant out into the lake, and were washing the beast's sins away.   


". . . a most delightful employer," the Indian Watcher was saying, "but still I foresee an end to my hire. Pity. The memsahib is generous, often praising my skills with the camera."   


"You take photographs?" Methos asked.   


"Certainly. I was trained in a photographic shop in Birmingham. No man is more adept with a bottle of silver nitrate than I! Now, the Ranee Ayesha would make a most admirable subject for a photographic essay, and I have offered my services to her; I am sure she will be generous. Is she a generous woman?"   


"Most certainly so," Methos murmured, "very generous."   


The Watcher bowed. "She must be, to retain the services of a priest and magician of your stature. Why, the servants buzz with gossip about your holiness, good sir, and the enmity of the Bon wizard, my memsahib's husband. All men know his evil powers! Why, after your employer shot him eight times through the heart, they say, he did nothing but sleep an hour or two and then wake roaring for his breakfast."   


"Mm."   


"And his pursuit of the dear lady . . . a scandal, an affront to this holy place."   


Both of them raised their eyes toward Mount Kailas. Off to their right, fresh shouts of mirth arose; a parade of men armed with brooms and brushes emerged from the lake. From their midst, the cow elephant ran forward - splashing great waves of ice-cold water over her attendants. Her ears flapped madly and her tail was high. Once she dried in the sun, they would paint her anew.   


"What will you do?" asked the Watcher, his voice a shade too casual. "The Ranee Ayesha's servants call you a very holy yogi, able to do magic and work miracles. But Naro-Bonchung is a great killer of men. With a sword in his hand, he is like a force of nature. As terrible as the sandstorms which destroy caravans and devour entire cities!"   


Methos laid down the puppet, and shrugged.   


"But you won't fight him," guessed the Watcher. "Won't you?"   


Immortal and Watcher looked at one another, each one knowing what the other was. Methos said, "I will not."   


"Why won't you?"   


"It isn't right."   


"Why isn't it?"   


Methos sighed. "Because there is a time to fight, and a time to lay down the sword. I'm not saying that the sword itself is an evil thing, because it is not: without strong swords in the hands of good men, there would be no peace in the world. But there are good reasons for killing, and bad reasons for killing too."   


"But he'll kill you, if you don't fight."   


And Methos said, "Perhaps." He pushed back his hair from his eyes. His face was completely calm. "Listen to me now. Self-defense is not a good reason to kill."   


"But he'll kill you!"   


"So I must kill him, lest he kill me? No. You should not kill in self-defense."   


"But then - but then - in what cause, then, should you take up the sword?"   


Methos smiled. There was an Arabian mare galloping toward them, charging breakneck across the grey wasteland; he knew the horse, and he knew who rode in that reckless style. He said, "Only in defense of those you love," and, standing, walked off along the shore to meet Ayesha.   


That very night, Naro-Bonchung came prowling around their encampment.   


Soft as a thief, his cloak furled around him, he walked between the silent darkened tents of the pilgrims. Midnight had passed them by hours before, and their campfires were guttering embers around which a few sleepy men still nodded. They never noticed him. He moved as quietly as an assassin, and indeed he had studied under the Old Man of the Mountain and knew many stealthy arts. Like many immortals, he knew many arts. All had to do with killing. He had killed more than a hundred other immortals, and knew himself unconquerable.   


One day, he would win the Game. Then, everything in the world would be his, and he would have all treasure, all women, all the kingdoms of the earth. In the meantime, he feared no man. Was he not one of the princes of the universe?   


Here was the tent he sought. Its outer flap was tied back, its inner flap drawn silken-sheer across the entranceway. A lamp still burned within. Naro-Bonchung drew his sword and drew a deep, happy, gloating breath. Whether the woman's husband lay abed with her that night or not, he would have his satisfaction. And if this insult didn't stir the other immortal to fight, then he wasn't worth the effort of beheading.   


What was that? A shadow moved across the inner flap.   


The shadow of Ayesha.   


Tall, queenly. He knew her by her impatient stride, by the way she swayed against the lamplight. And there was no man's shadow showing against the flap. No warning of another immortal came. Naro-Bonchung laughed suddenly, soundlessly, with surprise and triumph. Had she tired of the puppy, and decided to try a real man instead? He strode to the tent, ripped the flap open, and took one swift step inside.   


There was no one there. Only, a flat Ayesha-puppet lay discarded on the Bokhara carpets, and the back of the tent had been propped up in a makeshift rear door. Naro-Bonchung saw this in a glance. Every crafty instinct in his heart screamed an alarm. He wasted no time. He whirled, sprang headlong, made it back out of the tent - jabbing straight forward with his huge sword as he came leaping across the threshold--   


He hit a cord stretched across at knee-level. He went head over heels, tumbling like an acrobat. And he landed balanced on one knee, his arms outflung, the sword still in the grip of his fist - grinning like a tiger.   


"Come!" said an imperious voice. "Fight me."   


Naro-Bonchung howled. A dozen torches had blazed up somehow, he saw all the woman's servants thronging close. The lights dazzled him. And now the warning of another immortal's presence drilled into his mind, and he saw the tall thin figure of his rival walk forward, bearing a flag. All the shouting mortals had drawn back in two lines, waving their torches and cheering - leaving an open corridor, as if for the running of a race. What was happening? " _Namaste!_ " said Methos, and let his flag dip.   


At the end of the corridor of men, Ayesha sat her mount - dressed in the Bedouin robes of her forefathers, who had been bandits and conquerors and kings. She carried her husband's sword. Her chin was lifted and her expression was ridiculously confident, as if she was not a fragile mortal woman confronting an immortal. And why not? She had evened the odds.   


She was riding the elephant.   


Naro-Bonchung stumbled to his feet, his blade lowering. His gaze darted right, left. The elephant squealed and lumbered into motion. Its first steps were slow, ponderous, and heavy enough to shake the earth. And then it began to run. Its mighty feet pounded. Its huge ears lifted like sails, and strings of blue beads flew in the wind. Its trunk lifted, trumpeting. Naro-Bonchung turned and fled. Of course, the elephant was much faster.   


Trumpeting, it overran him. He vanished under the beast's forefeet; then Ayesha shouted, and the elephant was kneeling, excited yet obedient. Ayesha called out another command, set her foot upon the beast's knee, and sprang lightly down to earth. She tapped the elephant's nose affectionately, speaking in Hindustani, uttering words of praise and commendation. The elephant fondled her lovingly with its trunk, and strode away toward its mahout.   


What was left behind was a lifeless heap on the ground.   


"Back!" shouted Ayesha to the ring of avid servants. She waved her sword, set her heel on the bowed back of the defeated immortal. Already, she knew, he would be healing. She shoved with her foot, rolling him into a more convenient position. And looked for her husband, beaming with pride when she saw him approach. Methos' eyes were full of laughter and joy. He handed her the flag, and she planted it next to her trophy - there on that holy ground.   


"And now--" she said.   


She looked down at Naro-Bonchung, and in a flash her face hardened. "How unlucky for you that I am no immortal." She gripped the long hilt of the sword in both her fists, swung it up above her head, poised it for the downward stroke--   


"No!" said Methos hastily. "Ayesha?"   


Ayesha gazed at him. Then the sword was swinging down, down toward the ground . . . for she had dropped it, and now she stepped daintily across Naro-Bonchung's humiliated carcass, and took her husband's hand.   


"Wherever you go, I will go," she said, "wherever you dwell, there I dwell. Your country is my country, your people are my people, your gods my God. Your ways are mine."   
  


#

 

And in the present day:   


The two Chinese soldiers had laid down their bowls and were watching their prisoner. Immortal Maiden was long gone, but still the man stood without moving. They looked at him suspiciously - and yet he was doing nothing to which they could object. He merely seemed to be lost in thought.   


Finally one of them rose and walked up to the prisoner, who stood stock-still as if turned to stone. "Go back in!" the soldier ordered.   


He reached for the man's shoulder.   


The man turned, sidestepping smoothly, and then the soldier's wrist was caught, his hand bent painfully back and upwards, his elbow trapped in the crook of the prisoner's forearm and elbow. The prisoner wrenched his arm painfully down. Something slammed against his shins. He was falling forward, tumbling toward the ground. A blow hit the back of his neck. The world went blank.   


Methos pivoted and took two steps, meeting the second soldier as he rushed forward. Nine times out of ten, a confused man would do the wrong thing: this Chinese soldier proved the point, jabbing with his rifle as if it was a bayonet. A simple attack, simply countered. Methos let himself swing sideways as if evading a knife-blow, trapping the man's hand under his; he bent, yanking the opponent's arm forward, pinning it with his own left arm on top of the man's forearm, his right hand closing on the man's hand from beneath.   


Now the soldier's hand was trapped between both of Methos'. He turned, the soldier's arm was twisted upward, the gun went flying. The soldier lost his footing as Methos continued to twist his arm up and around; then, skidding, the man measured his length along the ground. Then Methos hit him, once, very carefully.   


There. He searched both men, dragged them closer to the little stove, and tucked the thermal blanket around them. His long coat went over top of this, and in its place he shrugged into one of the quilted Chinese jackets. He slung both submachine-guns over his shoulder.   


The beautiful Himalayas shone down on him, blinding white under the moon. The Himalayas, more perfect than paradise, where men died as happily as if they were already in Heaven. There was nothing on earth lovelier than light upon the peaks of these mountains. Awestruck Europeans had praised it, pilgrims crossed half Asia to glimpse it; it brought to mind poetry, prophecy, religious music without end.   


Ayesha and Peach, Peach and Ayesha. Never had two women been so different from one another! And he could dream of Ayesha for hours on end. Thinking of her now, he broke into a soft chant as he began the long walk toward Sangnachos zong:   


"Allah be merciful to her 

Bring moisture 

From His clouds of generosity . . . 

Do not let His stallions 

Lunge and dart at her 

Through mist and dust . . ."   
  


TO BE CONCLUDED . . .


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The search for the fabled Methos Photograph reaches its conclusion.

Imagine the usual disclaimers. Coexistent with this world are ten thousand Buddha realms; these events probably happened in one of them. 

Warnings: Murder. Battle. And sudden death! 

Lost Horizon 

Act Four 
    
    
    "High are the mountains, 
    Shiva lives in them.
    This is my homeland;
    It is more beautiful than heaven." 
    	 Himalayan folk song 

The Watcher shadowing Naro-Bonchung followed him up the pass, and back again. Upon his return, he reported that he had found Sang Yum and Mallison. Both were alive, both were intact, and Mallison - good lad! - was sticking to his immortal through thick and thin. Chang resolved to enter a note of commendation into Mallison's file. He sent Naro-Bonchung's Watcher back to work, and told the other Watchers, who heaved sighs of relief and returned to boxing up their computer equipment. What was to be done with the chronicles? 

The Watcher shadowing Immortal Maiden followed her down the mountain, and back again. Upon his return, he went straight to Chang. "She has Pierson," he reported. 

All around the room, Watchers straightened and perked up their ears. 

Chang was calm. "Sit down. Relax. Your relief will stay with Immortal Maiden. Where is Adam?" 

"At some sort of hut, with two soldiers guarding him. She hasn't hurt him. She's holding him captive." 

"Go on," said Chang. 

"She was talking with him." With a lowered voice: "She seemed to be interrogating him." 

They could all guess why. 

Chang rolled his eyes. "Can anything else happen?" 

It could. Even as he spoke, there was a commotion from the hall. The door burst open. A wave of Tibetans flooded the room: disheveled lamas, nomads with matted hair and dirty faces, an infant in arms - and a hairy black animal in a red-and-yellow collar. The Maine coon cat went straight up, tail bottled; the black monster bayed and surged forward. The Watcher Juliette screamed: "Bear! A bear!" as the Tibetan mastiff was hauled back bodily by the _dopka_ woman who was its mistress. The cat landed atop a computer console, clawed for purchase, and slithered off. It landed spitting upon the floor, with lashing tail and bristling whiskers, and hideous noises filled the room. And the _dopka_ woman took one look and shrieked out in Tibetan: "Demon! Demon! _Jetsumna_ , save us! Demon!" 

"Be calm, good wife." Sang Yum was there; Mallison lurked behind her. "It is merely a small sacred lion, a friendly _lha_ -spirit - a _sulde tngri_ guardian. Do not be afraid." 

The Shangri-la workroom was filled to bursting. Lamas with dirty robes, their tall hats knocked askew, poked curiously at the computers and burst out laughing when their fingers chanced across the keyboards. The dog growled, the cat hissed; the _dopka_ woman made haste to tie one of her mastiff's forelegs up to its collar, effectively immobilizing it. The Watchers bustled about, offering tea. As for Chang, he put a hand upon the arm of his newest recruit, and yanked him into a corner. "Mallison. What precisely are you thinking of, bringing an immortal in here?" 

"It was her idea." Mallison seemed to be searching the room, looking for someone. "She said we were-- I'm really sorry, sir, I couldn't stop her. Sir, where's Adam?" 

Behind them, Sang Yum was being seated upon a cushion, surrounded by her solicitous lamas; they put a cup of weak Western tea into her hands, but she dismissed them kindly and twisted around to look at the Shangri-la researchers in curiosity. They were all gathered together in a knot, arguing - such strange people! She sipped her orange pekoe . . . and then a thrill ran over her skin, a music sounded to her inner ear. She rose to her feet, turning toward the door. 

The door opened, and Adam Pierson stepped into the room. 

He was scuffed and empty-handed, and there was a rip all down one sleeve of his coat. But still, Sang Yum breathed out a great sigh; there was an instant during which his ironic gaze met hers, and then he was surrounded by his excited colleagues, all of them babbling in relief. Only a fragment of a sentence floated to her ears: "Here I am, the Buddha's monkey . . ." 

She subsided back onto her cushion, and uttered a brief prayer of thanks to Matreiya, the Future Buddha. While Mallison wrung Methos' hand and demanded, "What kind of monkey d'you want to be? Sir, isn't this great? Everything will be all right now. But what are we going to do?" 

"Nothing," said Chang, heavily. "We're Watchers. We don't do anything." 

#

Meanwhile, the Watcher shadowing Naro-Bonchung was on the prowl. Avoiding all the other Chinese soldiers loitering around the lamasery grounds, he skulked after his immortal. From cover to cover, he flitted like a fox-ghost. 

". . . there you are!" 

There was his voice. The Watcher glanced over the terrain, and moved to the shelter of a nearby _mani_ -wall. 

". . . why didn't you take her head, then?" 

It was Immortal Maiden, of course. And now Naro-Bonchung's grumbling voice replied: "Don't push me, girl! I'd do it when I'm ready." 

". . . still yearning after that old witch . . ." 

"Hah! As for you, there's a light in your eye I haven't seen before. I hear you've got some English professor hidden away down the mountain. Tell me about him. How handsome is he?" 

"What, are you jealous?" 

The Watcher shifted position, getting a little closer. He had been watching Naro-Bonchung for eleven years now, and knew the Bon immortal better than any other immortal alive did . . . or ever would; his advantage lay in the generations of busy Watchers behind him. They had studied Naro-Bonchung for centuries. Watcher after Watcher had observed and taken notes and drawn conclusions about their subject, until they knew him more intimately than any wife of his ever had. Watcher psychologists had worked on his chronicles and recommended exactly how to distract him - should one of his field observers be caught in the act. There had been Naro-Bonchung seminars, which all the Tibetan Watchers attended. There had been role-playing scenarios and rehearsals. 

The big immortal was bellowing with laughter now, jeering at Immortal Maiden; the Watcher risked a peek around the end of his _mani_ -wall. ". . . you damn Chinese! More than a billion of you, and so dumb that until you adopted European clothing, you didn't know enough to tailor flies into your trousers - why, you had to hike your pant-legs up to your waists just to take a--" 

And there came her voice back, closer, sharp with anger. "You're a fine one to talk! What are your Incarnations, but cowards who flee into exile when the wind shifts? When the Panchen Lama quarrels with the Dalai Lama, the Panchen Lama flees to China; when China puts its foot down, the Dalai Lama flees to India. It's an international joke. I hear that the previous Dalai Lama went into exile in India when the Chinese showed their teeth, and then when the English threatened him out of India, he turned in the other direction and ran all the way to Mongolia . . ." 

"Not my Incarnations, little soldier girl. I am a good Bon-pa from Ulan Bator." 

"A Mongol! Savages who leave their dead for the dogs. Tell me, is it true that when a Mongol mother's baby dies, she throws the corpse into the public road for every caravaneer to see?" 

"Of course it's true! How else can she be sure that everyone will pray for her child's soul?" 

An uneasy silence fell. The Watcher shifted closer again. 

". . . but you shouldn't treat me in such a shabby way," said Immortal Maiden's voice, sulkily. 

He heard her footsteps, moving away from him. And again, her voice: "But remember all those immured anchorites waiting for you, husband." 

Another silence. Intrigued, the Watcher cupped a hand to his ear. He heard more footsteps, and then the unmistakable sound of a kiss. 

And as he leaned forward to sneak another peek, immense hands closed upon him from behind - hands huge enough to engulf his entire head. Ogre-fingers wrapped around the poor shocked Watcher's face, and then he was hoisted into the air, dragged up and up by the merciless grip upon his skull. His mouth gaped and gasped, his legs kicked uselessly. Like a child, he was held dangling. Twelve inches or more above the ground. 

Now Naro-Bonchung, six foot seven inches tall and twice his weight, swung him back and forth like a jointed wooden doll. The Watcher's mouth worked, trying to form the excuses he had been primed with, the distracting words he had practiced - but he was unable to do more than moan in pain. Behind him, the Bon immortal growled out a laugh. 

Somewhere, another member of the Shangri-la team was surely observing in horror - forbidden by oath to attempt a rescue. The Watcher held by Naro-Bonchung could see nothing save Immortal Maiden. There she came, stepping closer, her clipboard held cradled to her chest. Her face tilted upward, swimming in a black blur. Her narrow-eyed gaze flicked over him, and away. 

"You're getting soft," she said acidly, and for a moment the Watcher, dazed and in increasing pain, thought she was speaking to him. But she went on, looking past him as if he didn't exist: "I can see your face reddening from here. Are you getting old, Lobon?" 

"Young enough still to deal with eavesdroppers," grunted the voice in the Watcher's ear. 

"What was he doing back there, anyway? No, no, never mind, I suppose it doesn't matter. We have to make plans." 

"Mm?" 

"For the future. After this is over, I . . . I think you and I must say farewell." 

Naro-Bonchung lowered the Watcher slightly. "Peach! Are you leaving me?" 

"Perhaps I am leaving you with a gift." Was that a trace of emotion that crossed her face? Yes, it was. It was a smile, prim upon her lips. "Sixty-nine trapped immortals, my dear. I counted." 

"Hah! Worthy of a king . . . Here, girl. Look at this. My favorite party trick. Ever seen anyone crush a beer can between his palms?" 

The grip of the gigantic hands tightened and tightened. Mercifully, the Watcher lost consciousness before the end came. 

The last thing he heard was the sound of Immortal Maiden's yawn. 

# 

In the project Shangri-la headquarters, Mallison was watching Sang Yum. 

She sat on her chair, musing; the lamas were seated in lotus around her, telling their Buddhist rosaries of one hundred and eight beads. Across the big room, a knot of busy Watchers surrounded Adam, who was being debriefed. Mallison glanced that way from time to time - but just now, he had been detailed to observe his immortal, and observe her he did. With pleasure. 

Christ, she was beautiful. Younger than springtime. Softer and more approachable than any mortal woman her age - and yet she was no woman. She was a living legend. Glamorous. Magical. Immortal. 

"I would like," she was murmuring in English, "to travel to China again. To take horse, and ride east, across the frontier to Kansu province. To traverse the valley of the Salween, hot as a wasteland, dry as a desert. With the Himalayas rising overhead, topped by glaciers. Where, if you turn off the dusty track and climb a few hours into the alps, you are suddenly surrounded by forests, flowers, songbirds. And the little ice-cold brooks skipping downwards! Ah, it's wonderful." 

"It sounds just great," Mallison said wistfully. 

"Once we crossed into China, there would be villages on the river's edge, tucked away in groves of poplar and willow. Imagine terraced paddies of rice, like nodding grasses . . . millet fields, duck-ponds, fish-farms. Pony-carts trundling along mud roads. Bullocks at the plough. And the peasants in their floppy hats, singing the same old songs that they have always sung." 

She turned and looked deeply and directly into Mallison's eyes. Mallison swallowed. 

"In an inn by the riverside, we'd sip green tea. The innkeeper would serve rice wine and shredded fish. There would be scrolls of poetry hung on the walls of the common room, and pots full of dried lotus blossoms. And we would talk of life, and history." 

She touched his hand. 

"I would like to take you with me to Manchuria, where I was born. There, we would ride through an endless forest; the only other living souls we'd see would be wandering ginseng pickers and sable hunters. There is a sacred mountain which is the birthplace of an emperor: the White Mountain, carpeted with irises and wild lilies to its peak, and in its summit is a lake of purest blue. We'd climb that mountain together, and look down into that lake." 

"Well, it's probably not quite like that anymore," Mallison said, awkwardly. He patted her hand. "It's changed, you know." 

"I know. I know it's gone. My China is all gone." 

"Uh . . . maybe it'll be like that again. Someday." 

"It will not," she said, and a touch of ancient knowledge touched her youthful countenance. "China's twilight came long ago. Invaded by every outside power, trampled by the Mongols and the barbarians; our light began to dim before ever Europe's shone across the world. And yet in our time we invented so much, gave so much to the world!" She laughed a little, and turned her hand to hold his. Then she released his hand, and stood up - still gazing down into his face. 

"You are a scientist of the modern age. And I, Lo-Tsen, who knew Mozart and Beethoven, Darius and Milarepa, can demonstrate for you all the theosophic arts. All the things you have come to Tibet to study, and more. Ask, and I will teach you the Blissful Warmth of the yogis, the secret _gtum-mo_ which is also called _thumo reskiang_ and with which an adept can meditate naked atop the white glacier mountains of the gods. I can achieve tantric ecstacy, and bend swords in spirals; I can cast out demons; with the art of _lung-gom-pa_ , yogic flying, I can run miles without flagging. Do you want to learn these things?" 

He sat quite still, looking speechlessly at her. Her lovely face was as still as golden jade. And now she reminded him of something glimpsed behind museum barriers - like a statue dredged up out of a tomb, old beyond the measure of man. 

"Why are you telling me this?" he managed to ask, eventually. "I mean - why me, and not anyone else?" 

She lifted his hand, folding it between hers. "Because now that I have wakened from my century of sleep, I find that I do not want to return to it. And when I leave this lamasery, I don't want to leave alone." 

Mallison felt himself go scarlet, right to his hairline. Presently he managed to stammer, "Y-yeah." He added, after a few moments, "Like the lamas are ever going to let you leave." 

"We shall see," said Sang Yum. 

Across the room, the group of Watchers was breaking up. Adam Pierson stood with his head down, staring at the floor as if perplexed or ashamed, while Chang stepped away and threw up his hands in some vehement gesture. He said something forcefully, so much so that Mallison caught the words. ". . . everything must be in moderation, Adam - even moderation itself must be taken moderately! Take the chronicle. Read it. Reconsider. If you give up your quest, you will never achieve anything like that. No matter how long you live, you'll never do anything with your life." 

Adam spoke, in his soft hesitant voice - as if he was protesting. But Chang crossed his arms and turned away. Then Adam shook his head, and came wandering across the room toward Mallison and Sang Yum. With a book open in his hands. 

Sang Yum glanced toward this book. She said wonderingly, "'Extraordinary Popular Delusions and the Madness of Crowds'?" 

"Not quite, but almost," Adam mumbled. He sat down, leafing through pages. To Mallison, he added, "Chang found it. It's the right volume, but the photograph is gone." 

"Oh," said Mallison. 

"I'm going to be disciplined for not taking my work in moderation. That is, Chang found some paper I threw away, and now he thinks I've decided to resign. And I told him that people were more important than history, but of course he doesn't agree with me." 

"He's worried sick about the - the research. You know he is." 

Sang Yum watched them, mystified. 

Mallison sighed. "Anyway. So that's the book?" He leaned over and read, picking out the words upside-down: _I have talked with M. A most inscrutable individual, very remarkable! Therefore I concentrated my attention upon his memsahib. Questioning her with great subtlety, I succeeded in learning . . ._

Adam lowered the book and made a hideous face. 

_. . . that though she knows his name_ (Mallison read, leaning further over) _she does not know his nature. She is not a woman of intellect. I have ascertained that the attachment between them is fleeting, and doubtless he will leave her employ when they reach Hardwar. She even means to allow me to photograph the two of them! Afterward, I intend to follow M until a relief reaches us from Delhi. This is the chance of a lifetime._

"The jewel is in the lotus," said Sang Yum, suddenly. "Do not despair. By meditation, one escapes _samsara_ , the sorrow of the material world, into the infinite beauties of the Buddha Realm: _sukhavati_ , the Land of Bliss, wherein jewel waters reflect the jewel trees, and upon lotus thrones sit infinite Buddhas, attended by their infinite Bodhisattvas, all preaching the Law. And in the halo of every Buddha, the devout may glimpse a further infinity of radiant Buddhas and Bodhisattvas, each enthroned within another radiant Buddha Realm!" 

Mallison added, "Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of your life." 

"Whoopee!" 

"Aw, quit your whining." He took the chronicle away from Adam and turned several pages. 

But," Sang Yum went on, "enemies surround us. It's more likely that when we quit this holy ground, it will be to go to our deaths." 

_. . . alas!_ (Mallison read) _M and A and all their party have decamped - vanished in the night - without a trace or a sign. I have failed. They must have suspected me. And though I have questioned and searched, I doubt that the oldest one will be seen again by a Watcher within my lifetime . . ._

Mallison shut the chronicle. He glanced at Adam, and shrugged a little. 

"Too bad about the photo . . . But while you're here, you're safe?" he ventured, addressing Sang Yum. "Here on holy ground." 

"Safe? Yes. Once I had a teacher named Darius: he was a saint, and for him, holy ground was home. But there was only one Darius. The rest of us can leave the Game from time to time . . . but it is our destiny to return, and fight again. For us, holy ground is only a respite." 

"A hermit's cell?" said Adam. 

"A hermit's cell. And now it is time for us to step back into the world." 

She was watching the gang of fiercely debating scientists on the other side of the room. There they were, all talking in fierce undertones while a - was that a Chinese soldier, who had just slipped through the door? - yes, while a Chinese soldier stood distraught in their midst. And whatever news this soldier had brought them, it was unwelcome. Even now, one of them exclaimed audibly, "--just like the Paris fiasco--" and another said, "We'll all be killed!" And then they all looked quickly at Sang Yum, and quickly away again. 

A sharp exclamation interrupted her train of thought. Adam was patting down his pockets, and looking very distressed. "It's not here--" 

"What?" 

He shut his mouth with a snap. "Nothing. Never mind." But he went on searching for whatever it was - while Mallison looked on, rolling his eyes. 

"Pull yourself together, can't you? I think bad things are happening. Chang won't do anything, he won't interfere. What are we going to do?" 

"We have two swords," Sang Yum said serenely. "What a pity that we don't have some modern guns to go along with them. And perhaps a plan?" 

Methos sighed, and stopped riffling through his pockets. "I am," he said, "the Buddha's monkey, and no matter how far I flee, I always end up landing smack in the hand of God. Well. As it happens, I got hold of a couple of guns earlier tonight. They're hidden behind a prayer drum downstairs. Now, listen up . . ." 

#

"Good meat," remarked Naro-Bonchung, through a mouthful of mutton. "Pass the butter, woman." 

Immortal Maiden wrinkled her nose fastidiously as she plopped a dollop of strong-smelling butter into his tea. "Yak butter. How you can eat it and not die of the stench, I will never know." 

"Lactose intolerance," the Bon immortal said, grinning. "It's a terrible cross to bear, isn't it? Anyway, there's not much else left - not now your soldiers have picked the larder clean. I had to fight to get hold of this shank of meat." 

They were in the lamasery kitchens: the Mongol immortal lounging against a table, the Chinese immortal standing stiff as a poker. Naro-Bonchung was tearing into a leg of mutton with relish, employing both hands and his teeth to devour every shred, and then crunching the bone for the cold tallow of its marrow. His companion sipped weak tea, without butter, and ticked off items on her clipboard. She consulted her wristwatch. "In an hour and fifty minutes, the sun will rise. Then we can start our excavations." 

One of her Chinese soldiers looked in at the door. " _Tai-tai_? There are more villagers from Tsawa at the lamasery gate. Several dozen, _tai-tai_. They say they've come to hear the Incarnation preach." 

"Send them away," she ordered. 

"They won't go, _tai-tai_. None of them will go. They're very noisy. They outnumber us. And they have weapons . . . They say they won't go unless a lama tells them to." 

"Well, get a lama!" 

"We can't. All the lamas are hiding." 

Immortal Maiden clucked with indecision. She glanced at Naro-Bonchung for guidance, and the big immortal grinned. "Hah, wife. Here's a chance for you to shine. They want to see the Manchu woman? Then get yourself into some yellow robes, and order them to go home." 

"Of course! That's exactly what will work." She smiled grimly, and laid down her clipboard. "Keep out of trouble, Lobon. I'll be back by and by." 

Left alone, Naro-Bonchung dropped the sucked splinters of bone underfoot, and began to stroll about the big kitchen, poking into corners and eating whatever he found. It was the simple truth that there was very little left save the butter and milk and cheese which the lactose-intolerant Chinese soldiers would not, of course, deign to eat . . . The slabs of butter meant for the parade images lay sweating yellow tears onto the floor, next to their abandoned armatures. It was while he was swiping up a finger full of butter that a flutter of warning ran along his nerves. 

Naro-Bonchung straightened, his finger in his mouth. He turned his head. His nose twitched. He clapped a hand on the hilt of his sword. 

And then he began to prowl in search of that elusive warning, licking his lips in anticipation. 

Was it Sang Yum, come stealing home - unable to resist his charms? He went softly through the milking chamber where the flock of sheep dozed fidgeting, still tethered head to head along the long pegged-down rope. No. It wasn't Sang Yum. He knew her presence well. And yet there was a flavor to this aura that he fancied he recognized . . . From long, long ago. Something that made him itch with anticipation. 

He poked his nose out of the dairy entrance, and followed it across the courtyard. Here and there, there and here . . . "Come out, come out, wherever you are," he crooned, crouching at a corner of one of the lamasery buildings; then he sprang out, sword gripped in his huge fists. "Fe fi fo fum!" he cried. 

But no one was there. 

Naro-Bonchung lowered his blade. "Eh?" he muttered. The thrill of another immortal's proximity was gone. He stood quite still, sniffing at the air. And then he heard a muffled sound behind him. 

It was the sound of footsteps. There was a muted noise, suspiciously like a whisper. And was that the growl of a dog? 

He crouched down low and peered around the corner. He saw a trail of shadowy figures vanishing into the dairy. When he tiptoed after them, he heard a fragment of a sentence, in English: "--when I give the word--" By then Naro-Bonchung was flattened against the wall of the kitchen building, his sword held crosswise against his chest. The open doorway was two feet from his ear. He heard the sheep, now awake, milling around and baaing in consternation. Obviously something was up. Were the lamas making a run for it - with some immortal stranger or ascetic to lead them? This was holy ground. And they might have weapons, too. What he needed were reinforcements; where were those damn Chinese when you wanted them? 

Then he drew a Maxim machine-pistol out of one of the pockets in his heavy sheepskin coat, and opened fire at the sky. 

The sheep bleated and stamped. There was a commotion from the direction of the kitchen: the loud excited barking of a dog, along with a woman's yelp of alarm. Shouting rose from the prayer hall, where the Chinese soldiers were bivouacked. And again, there was the warning of the strange immortal's proximity. 

As soon as the soldiers came, they could haul whoever-it-was off holy ground, and then . . . 

Naro-Bonchung sheathed his sword and ran his tongue around his upper lip, anticipating a feast of quickening. Even as he did so, a dozen of Peach's tame soldiers came at a run, guns to the fore. Their faces were grim, their eyes were narrowed and wary. He swung an arm to bring them in to him, and stepped boldly straight into the doorway. 

An ewe blundered smack against his knees, and stood staring up at Naro-Bonchung with dull-witted suspicion. Behind her, the antechamber was packed full of sheep - all free, for their rope had been cut clean through, but too stupid to make a run for it. Naro-Bonchung hesitated, perplexed, and all his soldiers hesitated behind him. Was this some ploy to block the way? A dog growled, a cat yowled. Then a voice said clearly: "Let 'em go!" 

The Maine coon cat, bristling like a tiger with fury and fright, streaked out of the kitchen, across the antechamber. Behind it, baying, charged the Tibetan mastiff. They both hit the flock of sheep at approximately the same time: one clawing its way over top, one slamming straight in. 

The sheep stampeded. 

Naro-Bonchung, reeling and windmilling his arms for balance, heard his soldiers topple like ninepins behind him. Guns went off, curses turned the air blue, but the panicked sheep stopped for nothing. A spitting fury hit the confused immortal, sank its claws into his coat and swarmed up him, heading for the nearest high ground in sight; then he had a cat atop his head, and a black dog leaping in pursuit. Ewes were galloping in every direction. The soldiers were running for cover. Naro-Bonchung, roaring, dropped his machine-pistol and got one fist round a cat's tail and the other knotted in the dog's collar. There was a shriek from the Maine coon as he flung it skyward. The mastiff looked into his eyes and fled with its tail between its legs. As for the Chinese soldiers, they were long gone. 

An immortal with a drawn sword stood in the antechamber, watching him. 

"En garde!" said Methos, and lunged. 

#

Not very far away, a party of lamas, _dopkas_ and Watchers hustled through the darkened corridors of the lamasery. They knew just where they were going. The Chinese soldiers were elsewhere, and most of the other lamas were gone; those they did happen to meet hastened to join them. After all, didn't Sang Yum herself lead them? 

A nervous Chang spoke to Mallison as they scurried along. "Where is she taking us, anyway?" 

Mallison shrugged vaguely. "Anywhere away from the chronicles is good, isn't it?" 

#

In the first passage of engagement, Naro-Bonchung tested the strength and speed of his opponent. His own sword was immense, weighing almost seven pounds; he prided himself upon it. He had never met an immortal with a bigger one! Its blade widened toward the point and was weighed so that it handled more like a club than a sword, and he wielded it like a bludgeon - using the edge, hammering down blow after blow, swinging effortlessly. His great height gave him an advantage of almost an arm's-length in reach; the altitude handicapped any foreign immortal; and no man was his equal in strength. Who needed the effete finger-play of modern fencing? Who needed the conversation of the point? Naro-Bonchung didn't! 

But the little pipsqueak certainly could move. He spun round Naro-Bonchung as if the bigger immortal was standing still - ducking, dodging, never stopping. What blows he could not dodge, he parried. 

Each time, Naro-Bonchung's sword rang like music. 

Each time, the _dopka_ blade clanged like a broken bell. 

After the fifteenth blow, Naro-Bonchung disengaged and sprang back, grinning. He landed in a sideways defensive crouch, his sword held crosswise before him. "You're quick, squirt. But where did you get that sorry excuse for a weapon?" He roared out a laugh. "Sears catalogue, toy section?" 

"Where'd you get that one - a lumberjack supply store?" The stranger stood on guard, breathing fast. There were beads of sweat on his forehead. 

"Heh heh heh. A kindly blacksmith lent it to me. In my spare time, I use it to forge ornamental ironwork. You look a little tired. Fresh from sea level, maybe?" 

At the second passage, the stranger moved a little more slowly, breathed a little harder. Clang clang clang went the swords. Stamp stamp stamp went Naro-Bonchung's boots as he fought - advancing, retreating, swinging around to face his opponent. At every opportunity, he struck hard, aiming for the same spot on the _dopka_ blade - on the forte, a handspan from the guard. He was cocking his head sideways now, listening to the ominous creak of flawed iron whenever a blow landed. 

They disengaged, circled one another warily. They had now been fighting for an uncommonly long time, at full speed throughout - long enough to slow the hand, long enough to tire the arm. More than long enough to exhaust a mortal fencer: perhaps six minutes, all told. 

"Muscles hurt, little man? Your sword's going to break soon, you know. Or is that why you're afraid to attack?" 

"This is holy ground, that's why I'm not attacking. Holy ground, remember? The place where immortals don't fight each other?" 

"Oh, I don't plan to take your head here," said Naro-Bonchung cheerfully. "But just as soon as I win, you and I are going for a little walk." 

"This is holy ground! Back off, Naro-Bonchung." 

"Aha, I thought we knew one another!" Naro-Bonchung said, and attacked. 

He swung his sword straight up and in a wheel, the motion a blur of speed - and with all his strength and weight, brought it down at his enemy's wrists. This was the technique called Splitting the Opponent in Two With a Single Stroke. His opponent parried. Naro-Bonchung's sword hit the _dopka_ sword square in the forte, a handspan from the guard. The _dopka_ sword shattered. 

It broke clean in two, and the length of the blade flew across the room and buried itself in the plastered wall. Reversing his own blade, Naro-Bonchung took a step forward and jabbed with the pommel of its hilt, aiming for the other immortal's jaw. The other immortal, narrowing his eyes, avoided the blow with a lunge step which brought him in too close for sword-play. He was now standing sideways to Naro-Bonchung. He swung his foot parallel to the floor and snapped it back in a hook, delivering the kick with his heel against the back of Naro-Bonchung's ankle. Caught off balance, Naro-Bonchung growled and made a quick step forward to the left, and the little bastard ducked under his arm and was off - dashing for the kitchen, like a sprinter coming off the blocks. 

"Coward!" Naro-Bonchung lunged after him. 

The coward leaped through the kitchen doorway. Naro-Bonchung charged in his wake. There was some obstacle blocking the way, which the smaller immortal sprang straight over and Naro-Bonchung barreled straight into. 

It was a slab of greasy butter. Naro-Bonchung's feet went out from under him, Naro-Bonchung's sword went spinning toward the ceiling, Naro-Bonchung hit the floor with a crash. He slid forward on his rump, yelling furiously, and Methos caught the falling sword, said, " _Namaste!_ " and darted out of the kitchen. 

Behind him, Naro-Bonchung sat glaring - slicked with butter from head to foot - and his jaw dropped. "Allan Quartermain?" he said. 

#

So when dawn came, Immortal Maiden (in purloined yellow robes) and a disarmed and sulky Naro-Bonchung stood overlooking the back terrace of the lamasery. Above them rose the mountain, cliff upon cliff; and there beyond the long snake of their sheltering wall lay the anchorites' cells, where the trapped immortals meditated. No sound or movement came from the far side of the wall. "Are you sure they're in there?" she asked. 

"Them, and at least one gun. I tried to rush the wall, and nearly got the top of my head blown off. Damn their eyes! They're trapped in a dead end - what the hell do they think they're going to do now?" 

"Stalemate," said Immortal Maiden, grinding the word between her teeth. 

They looked at the wall. It was a _mani_ -wall, like the many other _mani_ -walls which were to be found in every quarter of Tibet: long, somewhat serpentine, built of solid stone piled about six high and eight or nine feet thick. The flat slates of its top layer were laid like the shingles of a rooftop, and they were filled from edge to edge with mystic formulas, carved in long lines of elegantly cursive script. As a defensive fortification, it would certainly turn back bullets; to blast through it, you would need a tank. 

As for the cliffs above, they rose sheer. Six hundred feet, straight up. 

"Stall our operations, that's what they're going to do," Immortal Maiden muttered. "How can we dig out the other immortals now? I should have foreseen this . . . And they have two machine-pistols. Or perhaps more." 

"And at least two immortals with them." 

They brooded, gazing at the stone wall. Then they spoke, both saying simultaneously: "This is your fault!" 

They glared at one another. Finally Naro-Bonchung shrugged, complaining, "The bastards stole my sword, too. Lend me yours, will you?" 

"I certainly will not! Find your own weapon." 

"Ha! Give it to me!" Laughing, he grabbed at her with his enormous hands; Immortal Maiden twisted and squirmed, but he tickled her under the ribs, groped at her robes, and finally came up in triumph with a long golden-hilted European sword. 

"Give that back to me!" she shouted. 

Leering, he held the blade up out of her reach. "What, is it some keepsake? This isn't yours - where did you get it from, girl?" 

"Never mind! Oh, never mind." She brushed at her face, patted her hair back into its bun. Her mouth was sour. "I have an idea, Lobon. Let me go out and talk to them." 

"Suit yourself," said Naro-Bonchung, fondling his new sword. 

She put a long army coat on over her borrowed robes, and tied a white scarf on a stick. Holding this high, she picked her way down across the uneven, stony ground. "I propose a truce!" she called, when she was close enough. 

A shot whinged past her head, and she flinched and stepped closer. "I am a woman, and unarmed - but behind me are a hundred Red Army soldiers!" This was a lie - she had no more than thirty men with her - but there was no reason they would know that. "I'll talk to Adam Pierson. Send Adam Pierson out to parley!" 

Long moments passed, during which Immortal Maiden lowered her flag of truce and then mopped at her damp face with the scarf. From the lamasery behind her, no sound came. From behind the wall, no sound came that she could hear. Then Methos her master appeared at the entrance in the wall. 

He came to her, there in the clear cold morning light, with the sun standing over the shoulder of the mountain, and stark shadows lying along the ground like doorways to the underworld. His face, which she had once thought homely, was half-dark, half-light; his hair looked as black as ink. His expression was not welcoming. But he was her master - her teacher - the one soul upon Earth she loved - and she thought to herself: He can never be less than beautiful to me. I will do anything to have him. 

"Peach-child." 

"Master Methos." She thought: I love you, I love you, I love you-- What she said was, "Oh, master. I never dreamed you would be the one to betray me." 

"I haven't betrayed you, child. Why are you here? This is wrong, and you know it." He cast a glance over his shoulder, back toward where his companions and the immortal lamas were trapped. "You can stop this. Take your soldiers, and leave." 

But Peach shook her head. "If I try, Naro-Bonchung will only kill me instead. But it's a good idea. Come with me now - I can save you from him - and afterwards, we can go home to Shanghai, and--" 

"Peach." He held up a hand. "Peach, I want you to think very clearly about this. Is there any way that Naro-Bonchung can be drawn off, that the immortals trapped here can be saved?" 

"What?" she said, perplexed. And she thought: who cares about them, anyway? Then she said shrewdly, "Very well. Promise to come away with me, and I'll do it." 

"How will you do it?" 

"I'll do it!" 

"Tell me how, Peach. Do you have a plan?" 

"I said, I'll do it!" Tears started into her eyes. "Don't you trust me, master?" 

He shrugged a little. "If I promise--" 

"Then you do promise?" she said eagerly. 

"If I promise, then you have to take all your soldiers away. Withdraw them down the mountain to Tsawa and wait there for--" 

"I can't do that! There's a mob at the lamasery gates, demanding see the Incarnation. Sang Yum, whatever they call her. If I try to take my soldiers through them, we'll all be attacked. I could get killed! And you know what they do to dead bodies around here." 

"Peach--" 

"They chop them up and feed them to the vultures!" 

"That's the voice of fear I hear." He shook his head. "You've changed, child. Think: you used to be brave and hopeful and filled with greed for life. Hungry as fire. Tumbling through life like a kitten - making mistakes, yes, but always ready to try again. Young as a new-born child . . . and now look at you. What horizons have you lost, that you're standing here quibbling over what should be clear to you, squinting at the ground? Peach, you're an old woman." 

She looked at the expression on his face, and thought: what is he saying to me? How can he say that to me? 

Then the answer came to her. 

"Sang Yum," she whispered. "Lobon described her once. It's her, isn't it? You're in love with her now, you've betrayed me with her, you want to stay here so you can be with her--" 

"Peach, stop that! I'm not in love with Sang Yum, and all I want--" 

"She's your lover," said Immortal Maiden, and her voice was a wail of sorrow. "She's going to die for this! I'll take her head myself, and fling it to the birds of the air." Her hand was at the opening of her coat, fumbling after her sword. "And you! And you--" 

"We're on holy ground. Peach? Peach, no!" Methos took a swift step backwards. 

"I love you, Master," she whispered fiercely. She turned, tossing the flag of truce onto the ground, and began to stalk away. Over her shoulder, she hurled a few last words: "How can you treat me this way!?" 

#

"Are you well?" asked Chang, concerned. 

"Christ, that was frightening." Adam Pierson mopped his brow. "But I think I've delayed her, sir. We should be safe for a few hours at least." 

"This was a fool's venture anyway . . . why did I let that woman persuade us to this? Anything might happen to the chronicles while we're trapped like rats down here. Oh, I can guess, of course - we came here to keep Immortal Maiden and Naro-Bonchung from digging up the anchorites. She must have guessed their plans." Chang brooded. "But what does she want to do next?" 

"Mallison says she wants us all to leave. There's a crowd of Tibetans outside, and once we reach them, we'll probably be safe." Pierson looked guilty. "But we need some things, to make a distraction. She says. A shaving mirror, if anyone has one - or a compact, perhaps? Any old mirror will do." 

"I have one here." Chang delved in his coat. "What else?" 

"Sticks. Boards. She says? And some silk underwear, if anyone is wearing any," said Methos solemnly. "As colorful as possible." 

#

The day passed slowly, while the squatters outside the lamasery gates built fires and makeshift shelters, and settled patiently to wait: a few dozen, and then a few dozen more, and then a few dozen more . . . At noon, Immortal Maiden's soldiers made an abortive attempt to storm the wall, but someone fired a gun over their heads and they broke and retreated to safety. Later, Naro-Bonchung had a bright idea, and went off to climb the mountain; he intended to come upon the defenders from above. However, all he succeeded in doing was to fall down a crevasse and die with a shattered skull, and by the time he managed to drag himself home, the daylight was failing. 

The impasse continued. 

"What are they doing back there?" he grumbled, in the lamasery's prayer hall. It was a much-changed place now: its walls were chastely whitewashed, and all the hangings and Buddhist banners had been ripped down. The soldiers had shifted the long benches upon which the lamas had sat to pray, and peeled the paint off the statues in search of gold foil; their kit and duffles were stacked to one side. Naro-Bonchung was lounging upon the abbot's throne, amidst the litter of swords. 

Immortal Maiden sat on a bench nearby. Her shoulders drooped and her whole attitude was listless and dispirited. "We're pinned down here. I stripped the whole garrison at Tsawa before we came up the mountain, to bring in reinforcements will take days - and meanwhile those fools out there multiply like vermin. How many people live in Tsawa, anyway?" 

"Heh! However many there are, they're all up here now. And their mothers and fathers with them. Listen to them chanting outside that door! Your lackeys are doing a poor job of crowd control, but if you want them taken care of, I'll go out there and . . ." 

There was a single Chinese soldier loitering in the hall. Though neither immortal was to know it, this was the Watcher Huang King - sticking to his post with heroic determination, frightened half to death. As Naro-Bonchung drew his finger across his throat and uttered a suggestive death-rattle, the poor man went pale as a ghost and covered his mouth with an unsteady hand. But neither Immortal Maiden nor Naro-Bonchung noticed. 

Naro-Bonchung was looking narrowly at his co-conspirator. "Are you giving up, woman?" 

"Perhaps we should. There's little chance of gaining anything here anymore. Lobon, perhaps you should go to Tsawa, and then--" 

"I'm not going anywhere. Are you going anywhere?" 

"No!" She added, sullenly, "Though I don't know why we came. There isn't as much as a single cash coin to be grubbed out of this place." 

"You've had your soldiers watching the wall, haven't you? What do they report?" 

"Nothing. They see hats bobbing up from time to time, that's all. Dozens of hats, they say, but that's obviously just their imagination, there aren't that many people back there." 

"That tricky little coward . . . I almost had him, too, the way he was panting and puffing. If only we hadn't been on holy ground--" 

Almost to herself, she muttered, "It's very strange. He always used to tell me, never hole up in a church unless you have an escape plan--" 

Naro-Bonchung dropped his bowl of tea. " _A-tsi tindre!_ " 

She broke off. "What's wrong, Lobon?" 

"The cells," said the Bon immortal. "The cells, girl. How many immortals did you say were sleeping in there?" 

"Sixty-nine. I-- Sixty-nine of them!" Her face had turned deadly pale. "And they've been up there all day, unobserved." Then she was dashing toward the lamasery doors, shouting orders in Chinese. "Lobon, come! We must withdraw immediately!" 

"Don't panic, woman! It's probably a ruse--" 

But she was already gone. The Chinese Watcher Huang King cast a distraught glance at the Bon immortal, and dashed after her. 

Naro-Bonchung drew his new sword, and ran in the opposite direction. 

In an instant he was at the back doors of the lamasery. He charged toward the gap in the _mani_ -wall. No gunfire turned him back. No one seemed to be in sight - but the captive immortals were there, the din and melody of their presence drilled into his brain, confusing him, dizzying him, driving him wild-- And yet the stones over their cells had not been moved. They slept still, unmolested . . . though a dozen or more crude puppets dressed in bits and pieces of discarded clothing littered the ground. With these props, Quartermain and Sang Yum had just managed to drive all the Chinese right off the lamasery grounds; Naro-Bonchung understood the trick at a glance, and ground his teeth. Very clever - but they needn't think they were going to get away with it. He strode forward boldly, looking for someone to butcher. 

Then he saw his opponent. 

A single butter-lamp burned, set upon the ground. Allan Quartermain sat cross-legged behind it, one arm cradling an immense sword set upright before him, and he held up a mirror which flashed and sparkled and blazed. The mirror was aimed straight at Naro-Bonchung. And now Quartermain stirred, lifting a bone-white face underlit by the dancing flame of the butter-lamp. There were colored ribbons bound across his brow. The muscles around his mouth stood out stark in a dreadful entranced grin like the grimace of a naked skull. His eyes had rolled back in his head so that the whites showed forth. 

He spoke in a voice like rolling thunder. " _Skye bo yongs kyi dgra lha._ " 

Naro-Bonchung stopped short. He flung up one hand, saying, " _Cayan surug-un qurim!_ " 

Quartermain trembled all over. Tics twitched across his arm and shoulder, making the shaman's mirror he held flare wildly. Tremors ran over the skin of his face, his lips peeled away from his teeth. He said, " _Dgra lha chen po Pe har._ " 

" _Jun-u ayur un qurim!_ " Naro-Bonchung made a sign, fumbled out his own mirror and held it out. Sword in hand, he took a step forward. 

(At the far end of the _mani_ -wall, the lamas and Watchers were clambering out and vanishing into the night. Sang Yum shooed them along. As soon as the last one was over the wall, they hurried off en masse.) 

Steel flared in the lamplight as Quartermain surged to his feet, swinging the sword effortlessly upward; he froze there, eyes still rolled up blindly, and his breath came like a bellows. Colored ribbons and shreds of cloth, knotted to his coat in a hundred places, fluttered and jerked and spun. The stolen sword was poised over his head. " _Mi thub dgra lha spun gsum. Dgra lha sde lnga. Dgra lha bdun. Dgra lha mched dgu. Dgra lha bcu gsum!_ " 

Naro-Bonchung took a step backward. " _Cinggis qayan-u miliyad-un qurim,_ " he said, but there was doubt in his voice. He recognized what he saw: this was the ecstatic trance of a master shaman, able to call up hysterical strength. If he wished, the other immortal might well twist the sword in his hand into spirals. If he wished, he could fight with the fury of a dozen berserkers. 

(Just outside the lamasary, Immortal Maiden in her lama's robes strode toward a shouting crowd of Tibetans. Her soldiers slunk behind her, whey-faced and outnumbered. If the rabble charged, they were all dead men. But Peach raised her arms and cried out: "Here I am, the Incarnation! See me, Sang Yum! Good people of Tsawa, I tell you now: leave this holy place in peace, and go back to wherever you--") 

And now, within, Quartermain was shuddering so the ribbons rippled like leaves in a windstorm. He jabbed the immense Bon sword skyward, stalked forward, whispering: " _Rdo rje lcags kyu ma_ : I see her, the three-headed guardian of the eastern gate. Her faces are red, white and black. In her right hands she holds the hook, the sword, the thunderbolt. In her left hands she brandishes the pestle, the hatchet, the _tarjani mudra_ \--" 

"My _Sulde tngri_ , protect me!" cried Naro-Bonchung, gesturing wildly with the mirror. 

But the music of sixty-nine immortals clouded his mind, and his enemy was advancing, intoning, "I see _Zhags pa ma_ , guardian of the southern gate. Her three faces are yellow, white, and red. Her three left hands hold the pestle, the hatchet, and the _tarjani mudra_. Her three right hands hold the snare and the sword and the thunderbolt." 

"My _dgra-lha_ , protect me! My _pho lha_ , protect me!" 

"I see your _pho lha_ peering under your arm, flying into my mirror - your _pho lha_ is gone, Naro-Bonchung. I see your _dgra-lha_ staring over your right shoulder, flying into my mirror - your _dgra-lha_ is gone, Lobon! I see--" The sword in Quartermain's hand slammed down, into the on guard position. "I see the green _Dril bu ma_ of the northern gate. Her faces are green, white and red. Her right hands hold bell, thunderbolt, sword. Her left hands hold--" 

Naro-Bonchung flinched backward. 

"Ah, everyone is gone. Come, let's match your spirits against my spirits," said Quartermain. Then he bolted straight forward and was past Naro-Bonchung in the blink of an eye. Running like a deer. 

Naro-Bonchung roared and chased after him. 

(Outside the lamasery, the group led by the real Sang Yum ran smack into a disorderly and frightening scene. A gang of frightened Chinese soldiers, guns waving every which way, huddled together making menacing noises while a mob advanced upon them; and there was Peach, giving orders to the crowd. No one was listening. No one noticed the true Incarnation among them, though she shouted and her lamas ran forward to calm the riot. Chang had just realized that he was short one Watcher, and was looking around for Adam Pierson. Sang Yum stood among the Shangri-la personnel, and gritted her teeth; Mallison took off his long coat, and put it around her shoulders. "It'll be all right," he said.) 

It seemed to Naro-Bonchung that this had been going on for a century: the little pipsqueak fled, and he pursued. But now, the deserted and defaced prayer hall, he had caught up at last. Methos turned at bay, glancing at the open doors. There, beyond the portal, holy ground ended; bonfires glared and angry voices rose. Like a vision from a dream, both immortals could see the crowd of pilgrims from Tsawa backlit by leaping flames - though the mortals waiting outside the doorway could not see what happened in the darkened hall. 

But Sang Yum and Peach were out there, as were the bewildered lamas - all part of the audience. As were the Watchers. 

Naro-Bonchung came at Methos, swinging his sword viciously downward. Methos whirled to meet him, slamming his own blade up - countering with the move named Wheeling Right, Turning Left. He swung his body rightwards; Naro-Bonchung's slash missed by a bare inch; then Methos was cutting at Naro-Bonchung's left fist. Naro-Bonchung parried. Steel clashed against steel. Sparks flew. 

"May Erlik Khan devour you!" 

"Been there, done that," said Methos. 

"You're scared, little man!" Naro-Bonchung grinned and licked his lips. "I see you looking at the doorway - three guesses what happens when I get you outside! That's why you've finally decided to stand and fight. That's what makes your blood run cold!" 

Moon-and-Darkness met Monkey Flying and was countered with Wild Sword. 

Sure Victory met Divine Sword and was parried with Cross Wind. 

Swallow Turning. Flower Wheel. Quartermain fought like ten devils possessed by ten demons. But little by little, Naro-Bonchung was maneuvering him toward that open door. 

Rising Cloud. Entrapment. Swift as thought, move followed move. Delicate Parrying. Cross-shaped Sword. And now the doorway was at Methos' back. 

Finale. 

"I know you, Lobon," Methos said softly. "You can't hide from me. Hear my words! You were born on the shores of Lake Baikal when Temugin was Khan. You were taught by the evil immortal Kurgan and the good immortal Darius. You have had many lives, many identities. Listen to me name them all! You have been called Joloi. Katkandshula. Kesar. Keloghan. Koroghlu. Ja Lama. Ak Kobot--" 

"How can you know these things?!" 

Light flashed from the sword Methos held, as if from a mirror. "How can I not?" 

Beyond the doorway, a few nearby Tibetans were just noticing the fight, exclaiming and pointing. A few more peered in their direction. Mallison was among them; the rest of the Watchers were somewhat further away. Methos glanced over his shoulder, and saw this. As he turned back, Naro-Bonchung caught a flicker of expression on his face: an extraordinary mix of irony and resignation. 

And then Naro-Bonchung goggled. For without warning, his opponent shrugged, dropped his guard, and tossed his weapon away - throwing it through the doorway, to land clattering somewhere outside. He lifted his arms, the flickering firelight played a strange dance upon his features, and suddenly he was not a little man but very tall, bony and thin - and in an uncanny way his beaky profile and the fluttering rags of his coat transformed him into a creature of legend. A dancing bird. A laughing magician. And the sleeves of the long coat flapped like wings as he whirled, eerie as if in a dream, and as Naro-Bonchung lunged forward the whole beribboned coat came flying into his face. The voice of the magician thundered: _"Srog gcod! Snying gcod! Lus gcod!"_ and finally, terribly: _"Dbang thang gcod!"_

While Naro-Bonchung clawed the coat away, Methos walked unhurriedly out through the doorway. 

Everyone outside saw them then: the unarmed man walking off holy ground - as if he had not a care in the world - and behind him, bellowing like a bull yak, the enraged giant charging with sword extended. Shouting as he came, "May _ada_ -demons curse you! May _jedker_ -demons curse you! May _todqar_ -demons curse you--" 

What happened next, happened very quickly. To Chang, shoving through the screaming crowd, it seemed that Adam Pierson had been tripped by a stone. To Mallison, who was much closer, it appeared that his friend tumbled head over heels. But only Sang Yum and Peach, who were experienced fighters, glimpsed the swift sequence of moves which followed: the falling man rolled like an acrobat, jackknifed, and then suddenly his long legs were shooting upward - trapping the larger man's sword as both of Methos' ankles shut on the flat sides of the blade, twisted it, torqued it - and then Naro-Bonchung stumbled, was jerked forward by his grip on the sword. As he fell, Methos continued to roll, but underneath him, now, was the blade he had thrown away earlier. The blade which Methos now trapped between his body and arm. Knocking it upward, bracing it against the hard ground. As Naro-Bonchung fell, still shouting curses. 

Right on his own sword. 

Naro-Bonchung slid slowly downward, as a moth slides, helplessly, onto a pin. His eyes widened. His hands fluttered; the sword he held fell. Blood welled from his mouth. Mallison, gasping, saw the golden-hilted blade vanish into "Adam Pierson's" clothes; Mallison heard his fellow Watcher speak in idiomatic Tibetan. "Lobon, it's over." 

While Naro-Bonchung toppled to his knees, coughing, staring wildly. 

"Wha . . ." 

"It's over. Let it _go_ , Lobon!" 

The crowd had fallen silent. Naro-Bonchung sagged. Methos met Mallison's gaze, shrugged, began to turn away. 

Behind Naro-Bonchung, Immortal Maiden stepped forward, drew a sword, and sliced the big immortal's head off. 

And lightning splattered across the sky. 

The chanting Buddhist congregation raised their hands toward the light. They saw - for they all knew the old tale of Milarepa's battle for the holy mountain - how their Incarnation in her lama's robes had struck down the giant. Now she stood over his corpse, triumphant. Ghastly shadows and glowing mists crawled from the headless body, the air became deathly cold, and then crackling fingers of electricity played across the buildings of Sangnachos zong; for an instant, the whole lamasery was lit by a supernatural glow, against which rose the tormented images of the demon's victims. They were shaped out of fire and smoke. Their mouths gaped open upon endless screams. They grew and grew, bending forward, and then they tattered in the wind and blew away. Thunder boomed once, faint and far. The eternal battle against the Black Faith was won again. 

As the smoke cleared, three figures stood as if at the points of a triangle, framing the slumped body from whose back a long blade projected, slanting and bloody. They were the Chinese girl Peach, and Methos, and the mortal Mallison. The mortal began to speak, stopped, stood there shaking his head. Perhaps two yards away, Peach straightened, sheathed her kaiken, and drew a submachine pistol. For an instant, she and Methos looked into one another's eyes. The muzzle of her gun was aimed loosely toward the crowd, in which stood Sang Yum. 

Peach's face was lit with love and longing. It made the years drop away from her, and she was left beautiful - a sixteen-year-old innocent, eternally young. She said, "Now, she dies," and opened fire. 

Krak-krak-krak-krak krak-krak krak-krak krak-- 

Caught by the stream of bullets, Mallison jerked backward and hit the ground, his arms outflung. 

Krak-krak-krak-krak krak-krak krak-krak krak-- 

Sang Yum went down, as did the screaming people around her. 

Krak-krak-krak-krak krak-krak krak-krak krak-- 

Methos took two long, smooth steps toward Peach. As he did so, stepping across the body of Naro-Bonchung, he smiled at her, full in her eyes. He touched her cheek, and Peach sighed and turned her face upward into the caress, her eyelids falling shut. She said in delight, "Master!" and Methos ran her through. 

Krak-krak-krak-krak-- 

In the absence of the submachine pistol's deafening chatter, the silence was broken only by sobs and a moan or two. Huddled figures bled on the ground, others tried to help or comfort them. Many were shot, but not mortally (thank Buddha!) and no one was quite sure what had happened; they were only convinced it was over. Here, the Chinese soldiers with common accord made off down the mountainside. There, individual figures stood lit by the bonfires: a woman clutching a huge cat, another woman holding a dog's collar, the Watcher Huang King blinking in confusion. Lost in the carnage, Sang Yum stirred and crawled to her knees, but no one noticed her, covered as she was with blood and grime. And the Watcher Chang was hurrying forward, making his way through the crowd as quickly as he could. 

From every direction, the ashen lamas approached, shuddering with shock and grief. Their eyes were only for the small figure lying on the ground . . . the Chinese maiden, with her yellow robes strewn wide, and with her undone hair a flood of shining black. 

She was indisputably dead. It was the interim abbot who reached down and smoothed her eyelids shut. A trace of puzzlement crossed his face. But he had spent the whole day hiding (with most of his fellows) in an outbuilding of the lamasery; and he had never seen Immortal Maiden, or known of her. 

He said slowly, "The Incarnation is dead," and all around, the people of Tsawa and the lamas of Sangnachos zong took up the refrain: "The Incarnation is dead! Sang Yum is dead!" While the dazed abbot looked at Methos, remembering only that this man had conversed long and intimately with the Incarnation, and murmured in Tibetan, "But she seems . . . she seems much changed, much older. Strange. Her only wish was that, when she died, she should be given the sky burial like any good Tibetan. Should we do that for her?" 

Methos knelt over Mallison, in the dust. Chang was almost within earshot, now. Methos said in Tibetan, "She belongs in the company of vultures. Give her to them." 

Then he bowed his head, and let his tears mingle with Mallison's blood. 

#

Postlude: 

At Sangnachos zong, sixty-nine sleepers dreamed under the mountaintop . . . as if trapped by a legend; as if captured and imprisoned in a fairy tale. They would not wake, the lamas said, until seven times seven years had passed; they would not wake until the day of doom. Hadn't they all just seen the proof of it? For Tibetans all over Po province whispered this strange story: that one of the sleepers, wakened untimely, had come forth from her cave to save Tibet - but stepping into the light of day, she had aged a hundred years in the space of a single breath. And died. And died, as they would all die - unless the lamas, who had allowed this tragedy, redoubled their vigilance and kept the sleepers safe from the outside world. 

Merciful Buddha grant that it be so! 

Elsewhere, the city of Lhasa - provincial and a little dreary - slept covered in smog and dust. But above it, Potala palace ascended its high hill, rising in endless flights of stairs climbing the steep slope, with crenelated walls running upward, and with building after building, rampart after rampart, rooftop after rooftop, tall vertical rows of windows beyond number - and finally at its very summit, the private chambers from which the Dalai Lama, an eager boy walled away from the world, had peered through a telescope upon his subjects. A lifetime ago. 

The Chinese girl and the Tibetan boy walked hand-in-hand along Lhasa's street of scarves. She wore tight jeans, a t-shirt and backpack, like a rich western student on holiday. He was bandaged about the brow and one shoulder, and moved with a distinct limp - but he was smiling, and so was she; whenever they glanced at one another, they smiled. And why not? She was beautiful, they were both young, and they were so much in love that strangers turned to look as they strolled past. Little children burst out giggling, and stout Tibetan grandmothers beamed and nudged one another at the sight. And they found Methos in a local teahouse, drinking _chang_ : barley beer. 

He glanced up, and said, "Ah, it's you." 

Mallison eased himself into a chair. "Hear you've retired." 

Methos raised his bowl. "Here's to Chang!" he pledged, and drank deep. "Here's to a lack of moderation in all things." 

"Well, he was perturbed," Mallison agreed. Sang Yum had gone to the counter, to buy something to drink. "He really thought he had persuaded you to stay on." 

"Yeah, yeah . . . What's he up to now, anyway?" 

"He's back at Sangnachos zong, getting the chronicles moved. He says they've had one too many narrow shaves in that place." 

There was an awkward silence. 

"Thought you were going to turn me in?" Methos asked, at last. 

Mallison turned bright red and chewed his underlip. "I wouldn't do that! It wouldn't be fair." He stole a glance at Methos, and blushed brighter. "I won't ever tell anyone. Didn't even put a new mark on my life list. And--" He was now rooting around in his pockets. "And I have something of yours here, anyway. Know I've got it on me. Yes! Here it is." 

He pulled out a dog-eared rectangle of paper, and put it in Methos' hand. 

It was the Kailas photograph. 

Methos lowered his beer and swore in Sanskrit. "It was you! You picked my pocket!?" 

"Yeah. Yes, I did." 

"Why?" 

"Well. I guessed you were-- That is, I guessed you had the photo. I mean, I may not speak whatever language you two were talking. Back at the lamasery, before everything blew up." Mallison sat there shrugging helplessly. He looked deeply embarrassed. "But I can put two and two together as well as the next guy. And I couldn't help hearing when you mentioned the name Darius." 

"Well, will wonders never cease." Slowly, staring at Mallison, Methos touched the photograph, smoothing it under his fingertips. "Mallison, I'm speechless. What will you and Sang Yum do now?" 

"We're going to India! Well, first thing off we're going to Lake Manasarovar. Afterward she says she wants to make a pilgrimage to India and see the new Dalai Lama. And as her Watcher, it's my duty to follow wherever she goes." Mallison looked fondly across at his immortal. "I must have lived right, huh?" 

"Got that in one." Methos raised his beer in the direction of Sang Yum. 

"And what about you, where are you going now?" 

"To Seacouver," said Methos, and he began to laugh. "Because a wise old woman told me to! To Seacouver, to look up a friend." 

Sang Yum was coming back, with a can of warm Coca-cola in either hand. Mallison leaned forward and spoke softly and rapidly. "Look, I'm going to take her away now, cause - well, we're not on holy ground anymore and I don't think you two should be together. Just in case, you know? I don't want either of you to be hurt. But . . . will I ever see you again?" 

"Who knows?" said Methos. He covered the photograph with the palm of his hand. "If you want to find me, look up Duncan MacLeod." 

Sang Yum was there, smiling. Mallison began to clamber to his feet. "Actually, I feel sort of tired," he said to her. "And I've said hello to Adam, so that's all right. Can we go back to the hostel now?" 

"Of course," she said fondly, and stowed the Cokes away in her backpack. She kissed Methos on the cheek. "Later, _chos rje?_ And may divine Tara enlighten you." 

Methos waited until they were gone, and he was alone. Then he lifted his hand, and looked down at Ayesha's photograph. Its corners were wrinkled, its surface was cracked. It was watermarked, faded almost uniformly brown - for after all it was almost a hundred years old - yet still through the wear of years, the stiff images were visible. 

There she was. 

She stood, of course, at center stage: a tall woman in Bedouin dress, surrounded by robed and turbaned Indians. Her head was slightly turned, gun cradled in one elbow, long dark hair tumbling over her shoulders - and the fading of time had been unable to erase the lines of her profile: strong and proud, with the out-thrust chin and round, childish brow he had loved. With the large eyes of a very young girl. With the determination of a mature woman who is afraid of nothing. She was gazing to one side, as if pointing a finger into the throng of anonymous men around her . . . and like a snapshot of the mind, Methos remembered that very moment, when Ayesha had met his eyes and smiled in the purest love. But the actual photograph was so deteriorated that whoever she was looking at had vanished. 

He drew a deep breath. 

"Wherever you have gone, I will someday go," he whispered, "wherever you dwell, I will dwell. Your Heaven shall be my Heaven, or your hell my hell. Your people are my people, your gods my God. And I shall take your memory, Ayesha, to the Gathering and beyond." 

Finis  


Boring political note: regarding the behavior of the Chinese in Tibet, I've read two or three opinions. Tibet and China (and Japan!) chose to isolate themselves until modern times. The Chinese in the provinces knew nothing of the outer world, but remembered invasions by the Mongols and the Tibetans. As for Tibet, when China annexed it in the fifties, it was probably the most sequestered nation upon Earth . . . and, being totally isolated, it had no allies and way of getting no help. And Tibet's government was theocratic: the lamas persecuted by the Chinese were the bureaucracy of the former government, the lamaseries sacked by the Chinese (and only seven lamaseries in all of Tibet, apparently, escaped intact) were the agencies of Lhasa. Travelers writing in the early part of this century say that the peasants in the outlying provinces of Tibet disliked being ruled by Lhasa, and thought that under the Chinese, they would lead a better life. They probably are not leading a better life nowadays. But they probably aren't leading a worse life, either; their lives have always been pretty wretched. 

On the other hand, witnesses from Tibet tell accounts of Chinese atrocities: torture, crucifixion, mass executions, sterilizations, red-hot nails hammered into the foreheads of revered lamas, and much much more. Those in Tibet know the truth; those of us elsewhere in the world will probably never be sure. 

The ancient road to Mount Kailas and Manasarovar was closed by the Chinese in the fifties. It was reopened in 1991. Indian pilgrims still travel it.


End file.
